


help me get where I belong

by ravenkings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, content not really as dark as it seems, it gets better but god it takes time to get there, there is a lot of crafting in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 56,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenkings/pseuds/ravenkings
Summary: Dean Winchester just needs to get through a quick three-month stint in rehab to appease his little brother, then he'll be back to boozing away the rest of his short, shitty life. Except he kind of likes the group therapy leaders for AA, he's getting way better at watercoloring, and the crazy-haired guy on the NA side of the ward keeps winking at him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 66
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Check end notes for extra content warnings/explanations. Title from Motion Picture Soundtrack by Radiohead.

It’s a Thursday in March when Dean Winchester starts to feel a little sick, so he goes to the cheap clinic with a sliding-scale payment system on 17th Street to check in with a doctor a week later. And he doesn’t remember her name, exactly, but he knows it started with an L and ended with a Y and even though he felt a little embarrassed about some of his symptoms, she seemed nice. And he thought he’d never see her again. So he was honest, and it was the first time he was honest with someone about how he felt, and also about his job. 

With any job, there are certain workplace hazards that you have to be willing to accept. Whether it’s falling bricks in construction, or needle sticks in hospitals, weird chemicals in factories -- there’s always something. And Dean had been willing to accept the particular hazards associated with his career of choice over the last several years. 

But the reality of the situation is that no one ever _really_ thinks they’re going to get HIV. 

So when Dr. L***y tells Dean that his white blood cell count is low, he doesn’t think much about it. She says that _it could probably be an infection, Mr. Winchester, but due to your history I think it would be a good choice to do some more bloodwork to rule other things out._ He asked how much extra it would be, and she told him, and his first thought was _okay, I could skip dinner for the next three nights or blow two guys to come up with that money._ And to this day, he thinks the doctor must have been reading his mind, because she told him right then that he should stop going to work and try to take it easy. 

“Why?” he asked her. The paper sheet under his legs crinkled as he moved, and he felt hyper-conscious under her gaze. 

Dr. L***y is in her forties, with short black hair and dark skin. The kindness in her eyes shifts, for a second. And Dean isn’t that perceptive a lot of the time, but he can see that she gets sad for that second. 

“Just to be cautious. Don’t worry about the extra cost, Mr. Winchester. I’ll let you know the results in about ten days.” 

Then she gave him a little smile and a pat on the shoulder, and walked out of the fluorescent room and back into the hall. He never saw her again, but ten days later she left a voicemail on his phone. He was in the middle of playing a chess game with his younger brother when his phone rang, and he said he’d get it later -- it had been a solid week since he’d had time to just sit down and hang out with Sam, and he wanted to soak it up. He was going to go to college in just a few months, so Dean wanted to have all the time he could. 

He let Sam win the game and then went the extra mile and cooked dinner. He threw together some spaghetti and meatballs, and even handed Sam a beer with supper to celebrate his win. They watched _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,_ and around hour two Sam conked out on the couch and Dean figured it would be a better time to check his messages. He didn’t recognize the number, so he almost deleted it. The clinic visit was in the back of his mind -- his fever had gone down, the pain in his groin had stopped, and overall he felt better. 

But then, he wondered if it was someone from work and he just didn’t remember the number. And he thought about how ugly it could get, sometimes, if he didn’t give a client the attention they wanted. So he flipped open his cellphone, clicked for the voicemail, and held it to his ear. 

_Hi, Mr. Winchester, this is the 17th Street Family Care Clinic. Your lab results have come back with some significant abnormalities, so you’ve been referred to Dr. Miller at the Kansas Department of Health and Environment. You have an appointment next week at 10am on Wednesday, the 24th of March. Please call us if you have any questions._

The last two hours of the film felt like two seconds, and when the credits rolled away Dean sat in the darkness for a while. Sam breathed softly, in and out, as he slept; Dean always tossed and turned throughout the night, but Sam slept like the dead no matter where he was. 

Dean put a blanket over his brother’s shoulders and went to the back of their apartment silently before standing in the bathroom for a long time, stripping and turning on the shower. He examined himself in the mirror, tracing the lines around his eyes and the errant scars over his body. He looked older than twenty-two, but his heart felt even more ancient. Eyes scanning down, he thought about his body: a tool, a machine, a vessel. And now, more terrified than he’d felt in eighteen years, he wondered if it was also a traitor. 

Five days pass, and he doesn’t tell Sam. He goes to his appointment in a building that is much too large and far too confusing, and he asks three different people where to find Dr. Miller before he gets to the right waiting room. At that point, he’s ten minutes late and the receptionist acts snippy. She asks for his insurance, his date of birth, and who he’s seeing -- and the change in her attitude when Dean says _Dr. Miller, thanks so much for being patient,_ makes him feel sick to his stomach. 

“Oh, alright. Well, just, um -- you can take a seat over there sir. He’ll be with you shortly. If you need anything, just let me know.” 

She even smiles. Dean wants to die as he signs in using the little black pen chained to the table.

After five more minutes, he’s called to the back and sits in a chair on the opposite side of a desk instead of on crinkly paper covering a medical bed. He waits for five more minutes, taking that time to examine the dim room. 

There’s one window, obscured by what might be the only tree in a twenty-mile radius. The chairs in the room are green leather, and well-worn. One lamp behind the desk bathes the room in a sickly yellow light, and Dean is about to stand up and start pacing when the door opens again. 

“Mr. Winchester, nice to see you. I’m Dr. Miller,” the man says, and Dean reaches out to shake his hand but is waved away. Instead, he takes a seat across from Dean and pulls a small stack of papers out of his desk. 

“Why am I here? What was wrong with my labs?” 

Dr. Miller gives him a long look. “They didn’t tell you anything?” 

Dean’s pissed off now. “No, they didn’t. She said it could be an infection or something and they were ruling other shit out. What’s wrong with me?” 

Dr. Miller flips through the paperwork for a second before flattening the pages on the desk, templing his fingers over the stack. He breathes in softly, meets Dean’s eyes over silver bifocals hanging on the tip of a very large nose. 

“You have HIV, Mr. Winchester. Human immunodeficiency virus. It attacks your body’s immune system so that fighting off infections and other illnesses is much harder, and is also the cause of AIDS if we don’t treat it with medication.” 

Dean stares. His head is empty, and his face is blank. 

_But I'm safe. It's always safe. I'm always safe._

Dr. Miller waits for a beat. “Do you understand what I’ve told you, Mr. Winchester?” His voice is just shy of curt. 

Dean stares some more, then takes a gulp of air. “How can you be sure?" 

“We’ve tested your white blood cell counts and the specific type of cell that HIV attacks. We have also measured the viral load, or how much of the virus is in just one milliliter of your blood. I can go over each result with you if you would like, but the tests are conclusive. You are HIV-positive.” 

Dean’s mouth ticks downward, and his eyes shift to the base of the ugly lamp casting an ugly yellow light into the room. He wants to smash it, and the windows, and punch the doctor. 

“What am I supposed to do?” He curls his fingers up into the hem of his jacket, gripping as tightly as he can so that his hands don’t go flying. 

“I suppose the first step would be to select a new profession or hobby.” 

Dean sees red. Shortly after, he sees the green of the leather chair flying across the room and crashing into the lamp.

“What in the _hell--_!” 

The door slams on his way out, and the receptionist asks him to stop as he walks by the front desk. 

“Go _fuck_ yourself.”

He spits out the words as harshly as someone can with tears in their eyes, and then he rips the pen off the chain before stabbing it into the drywall. The receptionist gasps and picks up the phone, but Dean's already out the door and on his way. 

He sprints out of the building from the first exit he can find, which is on the opposite side of where he parked his car. He jogs around the building so that the harsh winter air gets in his lungs faster, making it hurt to breathe. None of the people in scrubs or suits or lab coats ask him what’s wrong, letting the young man in tattered clothes drift away as just another element of a slightly odd morning. When Dean gets to his car, he sits inside without turning on the heat and soaks up the silence. 

Silence is a lot better to listen to than _you have HIV._

So he’s silent. Silent when he turns on the car, silent as he revs the engine, silent all the way to the liquor store. He silently drinks a third of a bottle of whiskey on the floor of his room in the apartment, and he’s silent when Sam comes home from school and asks if he’s there. 

He’s silent for an entire month, and then another after that. Sam stops asking him what’s wrong after three weeks, and they operate by writing notes on an old legal pad. 

In May, Sam finds out that he got into Stanford and Dean’s sober enough to muster up the energy to say congratulations. His voice sounds rusty, and unused, but Sam thinks it’s one of the best things he’s ever heard. They celebrate with a pizza from the joint downtown, and Dean _stays_ sober enough the whole night to listen to Sam talk about everything he’s going to do in California. 

He gets so drunk after Sam goes to bed that he thinks he’ll die by the morning. But somehow, he doesn’t. Instead, he wakes up covered in vomit with a terrified little brother shaking his shoulder and holding a hand to his neck. 

***

Now, it’s a pretty Thursday in August and Dean is onto his first day in the Hope Valley Rehabilitation Center twenty minutes outside Kansas City. And he’s terrified, sure. But it’s just a three-month program, and he can call Sam on weekends, and it’s not like Sam’s gonna need him for anything now that he’s in California anyway. 

He just had to get through this as a bargaining chip to get Sam on a plane out to school, and then he’s back to the old Dean. He’ll have two weeks before Sam comes home from school for Thanksgiving, and that’s plenty of time to get to the destination he wants to get to. 

So for now, it’s just getting through the next three months. Ninety days, then back to whiskey burning down his throat. Back to silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work deals with various heavy topics such as alcoholism, drug abuse, self-harm, implied sexual assault, and HIV. I am writing about all of these things from either direct or very close experience, and thus am aiming to be as delicate and respectful as possible without sacrificing the reality of these situations. If these topics are triggering to you, I am going to include very specific tags and warnings at the end notes of each chapter (in this one, HIV/alcoholism/intent and implication of suicide). The point of this work is to detail that there are some really hard things in life, but ultimately it is possible to get through -- this is meant to be an accompaniment for recovery, in a way. If there is anything you think I need to additionally tag or warn about, let me know in the comments (and also if you enjoy). Will update this weekly, hopefully. Thanks for reading! If you or someone you know is in recovery, best of luck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Drink up with me now  
> And forget all about the pressure of days  
> Do what I say and I'll make you okay  
> And drive them away  
> The images stuck in your head"
> 
> \--between the bars, elliott smith

Hope Valley Rehabilitation Center is overwhelmingly beige. The walls, the tiles, the lights -- as Dean walks through the entrance hallway, he thinks that the goal of this place might be to just be so boring that you hope you never have to fucking come back. He almost says as much to the nurse that welcomes him into a little beige medical room at the front of the building, but her smile is so sweet that he can’t bring himself to say it. 

“Hi there, Mr. Winchester. My name is Charlie and I’m going to be doing a preliminary medical exam today. Just gonna ask you a few questions, take some blood, nothing serious.” 

Despite her attempt to assuage his fears, Dean feels like a cornered animal. He hadn’t set foot in any kind of medical space since his blowout with Dr. Miller, and he was terrified that this kind woman would turn on him any second. He felt like everything about him screamed _Damaged Goods,_ and it was becoming more outwardly apparent every day. And it wasn’t just the fact that he felt more broken than he’d ever been, but he was gonna have to talk to this nurse. Honestly.

The thing about nurses is that they’re either really, really nice, or really, _really_ mean. How the mean ones get into the profession is something that will forever be a mystery to this world, and what’s an even bigger mystery is how the mean ones can usually hide how mean they are for a little while with a sweet smile and a pat on the arm. And Dean has seen bad nurses, knows how horrible they were to his Mom in the hospital all those years ago. So, even though he’s a solid foot taller and at least eighty pounds heavier than the tiny red-haired woman in front of him, he’s scared. 

The lucky thing is that Charlie is one of the really, _really_ nice ones. 

“Oh, I really like your shirt -- is that Lord of the Rings? I love Sam. Well, everyone loves Sam, don’t they?” Her smile is infectious, and against his better judgment, Dean’s lips turn up. 

She sits him back in a little chair in the corner with a table flipped under his left arm, palm to the sky. She’s chatty, even though Dean is only offering a little smile or chuckle every now and then. Charlie is wearing navy scrubs that bring out her eyes and contrast her fiery hair, and once again, against his better judgment, Dean starts to like her. 

She draws a little blood and he barely flinches, filling up six tubes before popping a Bugs Bunny bandaid over his arm. She taps his arm again and tells him that most people don’t really need the bandaids, but she thinks it’s fun. Makes you forget about any of the nasty stuff. 

“I know that this probably feels a little scary, but don’t worry about it. And you don’t have to say anything back to me until we get to the questionnaire, too. And, not to be unprofessional,” she says, leaning in and stage-whispering: “you would not _believe_ how many IV users come in here and all of a sudden act like they’ve never seen a needle in their life. Kudos to you for not treating me like I’m the devil for sticking you.” Dean can’t help but laugh a little, and he’s happy to be with someone who doesn’t mind him not talking much. 

Sam tolerates it, but it was obvious over the last few months how much he hated it. Whenever he asked Dean a question and Dean pulled out the notepad, he’d heave a big sigh and roll his eyes. For the first three weeks, every day he asked Dean what was wrong. Why he wouldn’t speak. And Dean wanted to give him an answer, he did. He tried. Tried to talk when he was alone, in the mirror, into the empty air of his car -- but it was gone. 

Every second that he felt terrified, it was like his voice disappeared. And it felt like every waking moment was a horror show, now. 

So it’s nice, Charlie talking to him like this. It feels amicable, and he’s not worried, and she’s looking at the little stack of intake papers on the desk but she’s not judging him. He can’t read her expression at all, actually -- her face is blank as she flips through pages and pages of questions that he already answered with Sam the night before. Well, that Sam answered for him; Dean doesn’t exactly know what he wrote. But looking at the papers just made him want to drink more, so Sam did it. 

“I’m just gonna clarify a few of these questions with you Dean, okay?” 

He gives a thumbs up. 

“Great. How many standard drinks would you say you have per day? You’ve written down ten, is that correct?” 

Dean feels all the blood drain from his face. _Ten?_

He swallows. He thought he’d been doing a better job of hiding it from Sam -- but that wasn’t even the worst of it. Because the answer was definitely much, much higher.

Charlie gives him a second, but Dean just stares at her pristine white sneakers. He makes no noise, no gesture, nothing -- he’s trying his best to blend into the chair. 

“Dean, I understand that filling these out can be scary, but I’m not here to judge you for anything. I don’t know your history or your life, I’m just here to help you through this next step, and it’s really important that you’re honest with me because it pertains to some medication we have to put you on.” 

She crouches down, forcing her face into his line of sight. Dean immediately lifts his head up and away, refusing to look her in the eye. She just started to like him -- he doesn’t want to scare her away with the reality of how fucked up he is.

Instead of trying to look him in the eye again, Charlie sits on the little stool next to a computer in the corner of the room. “Did the receptionist explain to you how all of this works exactly? Sometimes that makes it a little easier.” 

He shrugs, stares at the Bugs Bunny bandaid. 

“Okay, well. I’ll try to go over it one more time just in case, yeah?” Another shrug. 

“You filled out the intake forms, you were accepted to one of the programs here. That’s step one and two, already done! Woo!” She claps her hands a little, smiling. And he knows it’s fake, trying to tell him that he’s already started the process -- he drank this morning and he can still feel the booze in his brain, fogging up his mind enough to make all of this feel tolerable. He isn’t even close to the starting line. But Charlie just seems so _genuine_ about this, that he believes her. Just a little bit. 

“Now, we’re gonna do a medical screen to check for any substances that are still in your system. Depending on the lab work and your questionnaire, we’re going to have to detox -- get all of the substances out. To make that easier on you, we give you a little medication. But I can’t give you the right medication if you’re not honest with me now, and it’s going to make detox a lot more unpleasant. Like vomiting, hallucinating, can’t-stop-shaking unpleasant.” She swallows when she finishes talking, and Dean finally meets her gaze. “I don’t want you to go through that and I bet you don’t either. So, is ten correct?” 

He opens his mouth for a second, takes in a little breath -- he can do it. He can say it. He can trust her, she wants what’s good for him, she’s trying to make his life easier -- he can do it. _I can do this._

Dean looks down at his hands in his lap, the dirt under his thumbnail and the holes in his jeans. His shoulders start to shake a little bit while he thinks about where his hands have been, the dirty bathrooms his knees have touched, everything he had to do that got him here and Sam in fucking California. _Fuck, no. No, no, no --_ it flashes, second after second, forced into the front of his mind. Everything on a loop, on constant repeat, and usually at this point in the morning he’d be four drinks in and numb enough to carry on with the day without wanting to leave his body behind. But as it is, he’s more sober than he’s been in months, and the thoughts don’t stop coming.

Dean closes his mouth, shuts his eyes, and shakes his head. He tries to hold back the tears, and he knows they’ll start falling if he opens his eyes up again. So he keeps them shut tight, only pointing his index finger further up. 

“Okay. Eleven?” 

Shakes his head again. 

Charlie takes a deep breath in. “Can you tell me on your fingers? You can just show me, ten plus how many more?” 

Despite his best efforts, a tear sneaks down his cheek. Dean opens his eyes and looks at Charlie, her pen in hand and the paper flipped open to the second page. It’s too late now, and Charlie’s watching him fall apart. _Fuck, she’s not even a goddamn counselor. Not her job to deal with your shit._ He throws up his right hand and splays all of his fingers out, and he can’t help but notice the slight widening of her eyes. 

“Okay, fifteen. Let me just make the changes to your paperwork.” 

The rest of the questions are a blur, and Dean doesn’t take his eyes off the hole in his right pant leg. Rips the denim further, tugging at loose strings and just nodding whenever Charlie talks to him. Sam got the rest of the sheet right -- after all, you spend fourteen years of your life with just one other person, you get to know them pretty well. Well, except for the very last thing. 

“Any existing medical conditions? That part’s blank,” she says, looking at Dean with a carefully neutral expression. After he cried, the joking stopped. But she was still nice, way nicer than Dean deserved for how he was acting. “You must be Superman, most people have something going on,” she smiles at him. 

_Superman._ Huh. 

_It doesn’t matter. It can't matter._

So he nods. Ignores the way the lie makes his chest feel heavy.

“Great! Makes my job a whole lot easier,” Charlie grins wider at him. “Alright, the hard part is out of the way. Once your labs are back, you’ll come back this afternoon for your medications. Until then, you’ll get a tour of the facility from one of our counselors. You get to see your room, the therapy spaces, and, _most_ importantly, the craft rooms.” 

Charlie lifts her eyebrows up high, gives him a wink. “Sometimes I stop by for a little painting if we don’t have a lot of intake patients, so keep an eye out. I’m in charge of all your meds so it’s nice to have me on your team.” 

Dean stands and Charlie gestures to the door opposite of where he entered, taking the little vials of blood from earlier and labeling them with strips next to the computer. “You can wait in the room out there, Bobby will probably come get you in a few minutes. Welcome to Hope Valley, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter specific tw: severe alcoholism, implication of prostitution, hiv, generalized severe self hatred


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Crushed and filled with all I found  
> Underneath and inside just to come around  
> More, give me more, give me more"
> 
> \--if i had a heart, fever ray

The waiting room is equally beige compared to the entrance of Hope Valley, but there’s an added bonus of shitty art lining the walls that makes Dean want to puke. It’s clearly all of the same fake-positivity shit that Charlie was spouting off earlier about _step one and two, woo!_ Except it’s a whole lot harder to stomach reading stuff like “Restore Us To Sanity” scribbled under a terrible watercolor painting of a rainbow. 

Dean stares at the shitty little rainbow instead of sitting down, eyes scanning the walls for an explanation of the phrase. Beneath the tiny framed illustration is a little black placard that reads _The Glory of Step 2._ He scrubs his hands over his eyes again, really starting to feel the effects of having just one drink a few hours ago. He wants to slam his hand into the frame and splinter the glass into little shards, let his blood smear over the rainbow. He peers closer, seeing that not only is it a little rainbow, but the clouds at the ends of the rainbow have little smiley faces. Dean curls his fists up and sucks in a fast breath through his teeth. _Ninety days can’t be too bad. Three months. That’s just how long it took you to get Lisa Braeden to go on a date in the ninth grade._

Dean stops and smiles for a second at the memory. He mowed lawns for months, worked up the money and the nerve to get two movie tickets and enough for dinner at the little diner down the street. He doesn’t remember what movie they saw, but it was terrible. She held his hand halfway in and he couldn’t stop thinking about it for days. 

His smile drops away when he remembers that it was the last summer he spent mowing lawns to earn money. Swallowing hard, he turns around to finally take a seat -- but instead, he finds an older man with a graying beard standing ten feet behind him with crossed arms and a warm gaze. 

“You must be Dean. I’m Bobby,” the man says, extending a hand. Dean meets it cautiously and nods once. Hopes that he wiped whatever he was feeling off his face before Bobby could see it. 

“Charlie told me you don’t talk much. That’s fine for now, might get tougher once we start on group tomorrow,” he says, voice gruff but not unkind. “I’m gonna show you around the place.”

Without asking Dean to follow him, Bobby turns and starts quickly walking. Despite his lumberjack appearance and attitude, Dean realizes that Bobby is remarkably fleet of foot. They walk down a little hallway lined with more crappy paintings, and Bobby starts talking. For the next thirty minutes, he doesn’t stop. 

“This is the medical bay, where you’ll come to get all your medications and see Charlie or one of the others for whatever you need. While you detox, things might be bad. Have you been through withdrawal before?” He turns, and Dean shakes his head. “It can be bad, but that’s just how it is. Meds make it better, but if you start shaking and gettin’ confused, let someone know A-S-A-P. Got it?” 

Dean nods, bewildered. 

“Great. You’re already becoming one of my favorites around here, son,” Bobby tells him with a twinkle in his eye, and it’s hard to tell through his beard but it almost seems like he half-smiles. 

They continue walking around the facility, Bobby explaining each room as they go. _Bedrooms, everyone has their own but don’t get crafty. Communal bathrooms down the hall. Art rooms on this side, four rooms for group therapy. Just use the names on the doors to find which one you’re in each day. The names are stupid, but it’s supposed to inspire. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for inspiration, but callin’ em Sunshine and Starlight seems a little frilly._

Dean really likes Bobby. 

After they walk through the cafeteria and exercise rooms, they come to a large set of glass double doors separating the ward from the other side of the building. On the other side of the doors, a group of people in light blue scrubs sit on the floor with a deck of cards. Dean pauses, staring at the others -- throughout the entire tour, he hasn’t seen a single person on this ward. Signs of life, sure, like jackets here and there and supplies left out in the craft rooms, but no _people._ No one like him. 

“That’s the narcotics male ward. Women’s alcohol and narcotics wards are on the second floors. No fraternization between the four except for some therapy sessions and crafting,” Bobby says, matching Dean’s gaze down the hall. “All the people on your ward are taking a hike right now, which is why it’s a damn ghost town. They’ll be back by the time we get you settled in your room.” 

Dean nods, but keeps staring at the little group. There are a couple of middle-aged men, one that looks pretty old, and someone with dark hair that he can’t make out because his back is turned to the doors. Bobby is already moving back to the bedrooms, starting to tell Dean about how linens work and where to get his own scrubs, but he’s not listening. Instead, he watches the game -- _poker? --_ until the older man takes notice of him. He waves to Dean, then mumbles something to the rest of his group. All at once, they turn to face him, and the dark-haired guy looks… _oh._

_He’s just as young as me._

The other men all raise their hands to wave, and Dean finally musters the energy to give a weak wave back. As he looks at each of their faces, he pauses over the young man his own age. His hair is crazy, and he’s staring at Dean with an intensity that makes him feel like he’s stuck to the tiles under his feet. The other men have returned to the game already, Dean forgotten just as quickly as he was noticed. 

The guy has really, _really_ blue eyes. 

After a few seconds, the man drops his hand. Dean does the same, and he’s about to start chasing Bobby down to wherever-the-fuck-he-went when the dark-haired guy smiles at him, soft and quick -- like it’s the easiest thing in the world -- and he _winks._

Dean flushes, feels his eyes widen. He turns away quickly, chasing Bobby down the hallway and pretending not to notice the way he huffs at him after catching up. Dean’s head is starting to hurt so bad that he doesn’t even have the will to be a little embarrassed; 70% of his brain is thinking _God, this hurts,_ and the other 30% is thinking _who the hell was that?_

Bobby shows Dean to his bedroom: 107MA. There are clean sheets on a little twin bed, everything just as beige here as the rest of the place. A tiny closet in the corner, a small dresser with seven sets of matching dark green scrubs, and a little bag full of toiletries. 

“If you start making stuff you like or family brings you stuff to hang up in the room, feel free. We have to vet everything that comes in though, so keep that in mind,” Bobby speaks gruffly as Dean looks around the room, inspecting the one window too-high up on the wall to reach without either two extra feet of height or a superhuman ability to jump. “You can change into some scrubs now, and I’ll wait out here. I’ve gotta bag up your stuff and take ‘em to the front. After that, you’re all done. You’ll have some time to sit and get used to things before lunch, and then I’ll do an intake therapy session after that. Sounds good?” 

Dean stares at him for a second, looks down at his worn leather jacket. Starts to panic a little at the thought of going without it. He gestures to it, takes everything out of the pockets and throws all of it on the bed haphazardly. Dean takes the jacket off of his shoulders and shakes it out to prove there’s nothing hidden inside, and then looks at Bobby again. Pleading. 

The older man sighs deeply. “Protocol to take it back front, kid. You’ll get it back by tonight, I promise.” 

He doesn’t know why the thought of going without it makes him feel naked, but Dean hugs the jacket closer to his chest and feels the threat of tears in his eyes again. _God, gotta stop fucking crying all the time. Who are you?_

Bobby walks forward and extends a hand, meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean swallows deep, tries to stop his body from shaking any more than the low-grade tremor he’s felt for ten minutes now. He extends his hand, giving the jacket over before gathering his other items from the bed and tucking them into Bobby’s arms. Before he turns to close the door and change into scrubs, Bobby stops the door with one plaid-covered shoulder. 

“I won’t let it out of my sight. Promise.” 

Dean stares at him for a long moment and wonders how this place made him start trusting two brand new people all in the span of three hours. His old list of “People I Can Trust” used to extend to Sam, himself, his Mom, and the school bus driver. It had expanded much too rapidly for his own liking, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. _Must be some kind of poison in the air or something. Doping me up on positivity._

He nods once at Bobby before closing the door, then takes a seat on the bed. He tugs his shirt off and the scrub top over his head, staring down at the rigid fabric. Dean already feels naked without the jacket, arms cold and exposed. Swallowing deep, he tries not to think about why he hates to feel cold so much, why he wants the jacket back so badly. 

Instead, he thinks about blue eyes and Texas hold’em. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: alcoholism, discussion of self-harm, implication of prostitution


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Her hair was dark in color  
> Her cheeks were rosy red  
> Upon her breast she wore white lilies  
> Where I longed to lay my head"
> 
> \--the east virginia blues, by the carter family

The other residents roll in for lunch at noon, and Dean wants nothing less than to come out of his room. He can hear them talking together, some laughing, others bickering -- but clearly an air of familiarity, a make-shift family. He’s the new guy, and Dean always hated being the new guy. 

Before Mom got sick and Dad got dead, Dean moved around a lot. Throughout all of elementary school, they never stayed in one place for long. Being a military kid had its perks, sometimes -- moving around meant he never really had to learn everything. Sure, he fell a little behind, and sure, it was a bitch to get his GED a decade later -- but at the time, not having to pay attention in class was the only good thing that came with being the new kid. The bad stuff was a little more overwhelming, especially for a seven-year-old. He never had any friends, never got to know any of the teachers, never got to try out Little League. He had Sam, though. And that had to be enough. 

But now, Sam’s not even there. And Dean’s confronted with the fact that he barely knows how to talk to anyone who isn’t his brother or trying to buy his body. 

He sits in his room for fifteen minutes, swallowing hard and trying to push back the pain building behind his eyes. Before, he wasn’t super jazzed about the idea of taking meds -- he’d drink, sure, but meds felt like scary territory. No-turning-back kind of territory. Now, though, with a roiling stomach and anxiety tensing his shoulders, he thinks _meds might be kinda nice right about now._

He’s just about to exit the room to find Charlie when a knock sounds, three quick raps on the door. Dean opens his mouth for a second, so stunned that he almost speaks aloud for the first time since entering the facility.*

*(And in three months. The last word he said was _“thanks”_ to an older woman who gave him an extra five dollar bill when he was short at the store.) 

Dean stands and lets his hand rest on the doorknob for a second before opening the door to find Bobby on the other side. His arms are crossed over his chest, head tilted back and analyzing Dean in the new scrubs. Dean’s (Dad’s) jacket is tucked under one arm.

“Lunchtime. You’ve got fifteen minutes left to eat, then we’ve gotta get you to your intake appointment in my office. It’s next to the Sunshine room, big ol’ _Bobby’s Office_ sign on the door. Here,” he pauses, uncrossing his arms to reveal something wrapped in aluminum foil in his right hand. He extends the item to Dean, pushing it against his shoulder when he doesn’t grab it immediately. “Turkey sandwich. They were running low, and I love Chef Jody just as much as the rest of us but the ham just isn’t up to par yet.” 

Eyes locked on the jacket, Dean twitches his head to the side. Bobby sighs and hands the jacket over first. Dean immediately puts it back on, then grabs the sandwich. He starts peeling back the layers of foil to reveal not just a sandwich but what appears to be a full-on panini. He looks back to Bobby and raises his eyebrows, solidly surprised. The older man smiles for a second and shrugs. “She tries to give y’all the best with the funding she gets. Dinner is where she pulls all the stops, just you wait.” 

Dean starts to lean against the door and takes a bite despite his nausea, pleasantly surprised at the taste. In fact, it’s so good that he takes four whole bites before he feels like he’s going to lose it all with one wrong move. 

He chokes down the last bite, trying and failing to appear that he’s a fully grown man who only needs half a sandwich for a meal. He offers Bobby a small smile, wrapping the other half back up and tucking it along the dresser for later. Bobby raises his eyebrows from his post, and Dean wonders why he’s still just standing there. 

“How’s the withdrawal coming? I know Charlie said she’d give your meds tonight, but after checking your file I figured you might need something earlier.” 

Something about them having a _file_ on him makes Dean bristle. It’s stupid, he knows -- he’s at a medical facility. They have to know things about him, they’re trying to help him; emphasis on _trying._ He just wants to get through this so he can go home and get back to the whiskey. Whiskey didn’t look at him with pity or take his jacket away, and whiskey certainly isn’t about to go make him have a therapy session. 

Dean’s lips thin into a sharp line, mulling the words over in his head. _My file. What does that even fucking look like? “Dean Winchester, age 22, permanently broken”? Fuck that shit_. 

He couldn’t articulate the words if he tried, but he knows why it rubs him the wrong way. It’s something about people knowing he exists even when he’s not there -- he’s real, taking up space. And there are two inherently terrible things about that: 

  1. He doesn’t deserve to take up space. 
  2. If he’s real, then all the things that happened to him are real. 



And those are two things that Dean can’t think about. Not without whiskey, at least. So he meets Bobby’s gaze, ignores the rising discomfort and malaise filling out his chest, and shrugs his shoulders. 

“Doing okay? That’s good to hear,” Bobby says, eyes neutral but letting a brief smile across his face. Dean nods and mimics the smile, clenching his fist behind his back until he feels his nails dig into the skin. “Well, if you’re ready we can get an early start. Get you out earlier, extra time for a little crafting with the other patients. Alright?” Bobby doesn’t wait for an answer, instead turning around and walking down the hall.

Dean can feel a drop of sweat snaking down his spine, and he focuses on the itching trail it leaves behind instead of the aching in his teeth. Heaving in a deep breath, he follows. 

  
  


***

After twenty minutes, Dean sprints out of the room. Well, he tries -- except his hands are so sweaty that he can’t grip the handle very well, and he crashes into the door but it won’t open, and instead of trying to turn the handle again he panics and thinks _oh fuck oh god they locked me in I’m stuck in here I need a drink I can’t be here I have to get out I need a drink I have to find Sam I have to get a drink_ , and those are the types of thoughts that lead a man to slam his entire body into the door two more times until the wooden frame splinters. Dean slams to the ground, hard, and Bobby is following him and talking to him like he’s a spooked animal, and he _is,_ but he has to get out. He can’t do this. 

_I can’t do this._

He runs down the hall, ignoring the stares from the group therapy rooms. His hands won’t stop shaking, and even though he feels hot and sick to his stomach he keeps his Dad’s jacket on. A part of him thinks that if he took it off right now, his entire body would fall to pieces. 

Dean looks desperately for an exit, even a window -- but they’re all high up or latched shut, and when Charlie runs out of the medical bay to ask him what’s wrong his pulse just skyrockets. 

“Dean? What’s wrong, where’s --” 

He doesn’t hear the last part of her sentence because he turns back and runs down another hall, breathing harsh. Dean’s spent a lot of his life running from things, both literally and metaphorically: cops, memories, himself -- but he’s pretty sure he’s never run as fast before as he does now. In some small space in the back of his brain, he thanks the scrubs for being so aerodynamic. Then he hears Charlie shout, closer, and he keeps running.

After sixty more seconds of sprinting, Dean comes to the glass doors connected to the narcotics ward. There’s a big sign that says WARNING: DO NOT ENTER UNLESS AUTHORIZED, red letters reprimanding him for even thinking about setting foot inside. Sweaty and panting, Dean weighs his options: run back, get wrestled to the floor by Charlie and Bobby and face the overwhelming embarrassment of this being his introduction to everyone on his ward, or go into the NA ward and potentially set off a building-wide alarm, embarrassing himself to everyone entirely. 

_Go big or go home,_ he thinks, and pushes through the doors. 

As he opens them, he winces for a second -- waiting on the sirens to blare, the lights to flash, everyone in the building to be alerted that _hey, Dean Winchester the Idiot has arrived!_ Except nothing happens. 

He takes in one deep breath, looks behind at the hallway, and watches Charlie curl around the corner. She shouts his name, and he takes off again. Makes a left turn, sees that the NA ward has the exact same layout but mirrored. He slows down a little but keeps walking to the hallway with the bedrooms, wonders what his best move could be -- maybe he just escapes. Takes his chances at the other medical bay. Maybe hightail it out of there and hope that Sam’s already on his plane to California. He knows that Sam sure as hell doesn’t have the cash to get a plane ticket back, so he just needs to make sure he’s actually _on_ the metal death trap in the sky getting there -- 

“Hello,” a voice calls out. 

Heart about to beat out of his chest, he turns to the voice and sees a tall silhouette poking out from behind one of the bedroom doors at the very back of the hall. The figure comes out to stand in front of Dean, and as he walks closer Dean realizes that _oh. Blue eyes._

“I think you’re on the wrong side of the ward,” Blue Eyes says, and his voice shakes down into Dean’s bones. It’s deep and rough, but the tone is more bemused than anything. After looking Dean over for a second, the man tilts his head to the side. “It’s a little early to be rebelling against the Therapy Gods, isn’t it?” 

At that, Dean feels his shoulders relax and one side of his mouth twitches up. He shrugs at Blue Eyes, and he huffs out a laugh. 

“If you want to keep hiding, you can do it in here for another couple of hours. They won’t find you. Just a friendly offer.” 

With that, he turns back into his room. Dean stares at the space he used to occupy for a second, thinking about how a couple hours could buy him enough time to _actually_ get out of there without Sam finding out. 

_Okay._

Dean hears Charlie and Bobby calling out his name, and he darts into the room. 

He shuts the door behind him, staring with wild eyes at the dark-haired man. He’s messily rearranging the sheets on his bed, a dark blue quilt hanging over the side and pooling on the floor. He doesn’t turn back to Dean, just starts talking as he messes up the sheets. “Get under the bed. I’m going to crack the door open, and they will most definitely come in here. Just stay curled up. And don’t make a noise, of course, but it seems like you’ve already got that down.” 

Dean does what he’s told, feeling his pulse start to settle down even though he can hear Bobby and Charlie getting closer. He shuffles his large frame under the twin mattress, watches Blue Eyes readjust the sheets before standing up and standing near the doorframe. He tells Dean to tuck his knees in more, then offers a quiet _good job._ He cracks the door back open, then grabs a book from the desk and sits on the bed. 

The mattress creaks a little as he sits, and Dean tries to ignore the claustrophobia of feeling the metal springs press into his shoulders. He hears footsteps pounding closer to the door, and then the door swings open wide. 

“You seen one of our guys?” Bobby sounds solidly winded, and Dean can see Charlie’s white sneakers hovering right behind Bobby’s boots at the door. 

Right above him, Dean hears Blue Eyes shut the book. “You think a runaway would hide in the one singular occupied room on this entire ward when everyone is trying to hunt him down.” The statement is flat, sarcasm buried under the words. Dean smiles softly, grin getting wider when Bobby huffs in response. “No need to give me lip, Novak. I know Garth is a big softie over here on all y’all but I ain’t got the same patience.” His accent comes out more heavily, losing a level of professionalism that he’d managed to keep even when Dean was actively freaking out in his office earlier. 

“No disrespect intended. Simply making a casual observation as someone who saw a man in green scrubs sprint to the medical bay a few minutes ago.” 

Dean watches the two sets of shoes go running back down the hall, Charlie calling out a quick _thank you!_ over her shoulder as they go. Blue Eyes stands up to shut the door, letting out a soft breath as it clicks shut. “You should be fine now. I will warn you that all the junkies are coming back from their peaceful nature walk at three, though.” 

Dean crawls out from under the bed, dusts himself off and nods at Blue Eyes. His heart has finally stopped pounding, and he glances around the room. It’s decorated with tons of art -- and not shitty art, like in the hallways, but _good_ art. Most of it plain black ink, portraits and animals and flowers. _Lots of bees,_ Dean notices. After a second of staring, he lets his eyes fall back on the other man standing across from him. 

Dean’s a little worried about meeting his eyes again, so he focuses instead on the center of his body -- _yep, that must be a safe zone_. He’s leaning gently against the door, book tucked under crossed arms. His forearms are covered in friendship bracelets. At least a dozen on each arm, bright colors and different patterns -- there are so many that Dean’s eyebrows raise up and he points to them, takes a step closer to look. Blue Eyes sticks an arm out without a word, letting him admire the bracelets; there’s one in particular that Dean can’t stop looking at, dark teal and dusty orange intertwined with black threads in a diamond pattern. It looks like the color palette of every cowboy movie he’s ever seen. 

“Ever made one?” 

He’s startled out of his gaze by the words, finally looking at the dark-haired man again. They’re just a few feet away from each other, Dean having moved a lot closer than he thought to look at the bracelets. It takes him a second to answer, because Blue Eyes has a pretty nice face, and it’s hard for Dean to look away. After glancing over the other man’s sharp nose and stubbled jaw, Dean swallows and shakes his head. 

“Want one?” Blue Eyes asks, expression earnest. “It’s easy.” 

Dean nods once, and Blue Eyes nods back. 

“Here,” he turns around to a bucket full of different threads on his dresser, digging through and pulling out a variety of packs and handing them to Dean to hold. He glances back over his shoulder for a second and looks Dean in the eyes again. “I’m Castiel, by the way. Most people prefer Novak, though.” 

Dean nods again, works the name over in his mouth. _Castiel Novak._

Once all of the thread is out, Castiel turns back with a few other supplies, including a notepad and pen. He spreads them out on his bed, gets down on his knees and gestures for Dean to do the same. He hands over the notepad and pen. Confusedly, Dean grabs them both. 

“Your name? Can’t keep calling you Green Eyes in my head,” he says, adding a wink at the end of his sentence. 

Dean fights back the blush in his cheeks, then scrawls out his name. Castiel leans over and reads it aloud, returning to his spot and looking Dean straight on. Dean notices that he has a nice mouth. 

“Pleased to meet you, Dean,” he says, gazing back down at the thread in front of them. “Pick five colors.” 

Dean picks three at random, ending up with a mix of reds and yellows. For some reason he feels self-conscious about his choices, and grabs plain black and white to complete his selection. Castiel shows him how to cut the thread twice the length of his arm, making a knot at one end. “Now, make a four shape with the first two threads and make a loose knot, then keep going.” He starts his own bracelet, four different greens and one black thread. After a few minutes, he turns to check on Dean’s progress. “Oh, not quite that tight -- hold on.” He reaches over and unties Dean’s first row of knots, cheek hovering next to Dean’s shoulder. 

He can feel the heat from him, smells something faintly lavender. Castiel speaks softly to him, eyes briefly meeting Dean’s gaze before dropping back to the thread. “Let me show you.” 

Dean nods once, and feels something soft replace the aching in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: alcoholism, implied drug usage


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "High and smiling  
> Cheap drink  
> Dark and violet  
> Full of butterflies  
> The violent tenderness  
> The sweetest silence"
> 
> \--mary, by big thief

After Castiel shows Dean how to knot the threads together the right way, they work in silence for one hour. The work is simple enough that Dean can make a lot of progress in a little amount of time, but keeping the threads _just_ tight enough takes enough concentration that he stops thinking about anything else except for the little project in his hands. 

Mostly. It’s hard to ignore Castiel’s witchy hands next to him, seemingly flying through the motions. Dean has to lay the strings out one at a time with care to prevent them from getting tangled, but Castiel keeps them tucked between his fingers as he works. It looks more like weaving than tying knots in his hands, and every few minutes Dean can’t help getting a little distracted by his movements. Castiel’s bracelet is also more complex -- a diamondback pattern. The pattern he showed Dean is turning out to just be diagonals of color down the length of the bracelet, and he would prefer something more intricate. But he’s struggled enough with just this, so maybe Castiel was onto something.

As though reading his mind, Castiel glances over at Dean’s slow but steady movements. “Next time I can show you something more complicated. If you want.” 

Dean looks up for a second, meets his eyes. He nods, once, finally drawn out of his trance. They stare at each other for a second, and _jeez, does this guy even know how to break eye contact,_ but Dean feels heat creep up the back of his neck and he shifts his gaze elsewhere. It makes him focus on something else for the first time since he entered the room, and then it hits Dean like a train -- his head feels like it’s going to explode. 

He winces, brings a hand to his face and scrubs at his eyes. He’s sweating, too; _fuck, I must look disgusting,_ he thinks, a bout of self-consciousness drifting through him. Castiel, after all, has looked kind of magical throughout this entire weird thing. After his third time stealing glances at the other man, Dean realized that his eyes being so freakishly blue hadn’t been a trick of the light, like he’d thought before. The guy just _looked_ like that, somehow. 

Regardless. Dean’s head _really_ fucking hurts. It has been for awhile, but this whole friendship-bracelet-thing was working wonders as a distraction tactic. Maybe he could drop the whiskey after all if he just picked up this instead. 

His breathing speeds up, and he cradles his head in his hands. “Dean?” Castiel questions, voice changing from its neutral cadence for the first time since Dean’s heard him speak. It goes soft and low, a hint of concern at the edges. A hand falls on Dean’s shoulder, warm and barely there. 

Dean removes one of his hands from pressing into his eye sockets to wave him off, thinking _I’m fine, I’ve felt worse._ Except his head hurts so badly that he doesn’t even realize he didn’t think those last words -- they came right out of his mouth. 

Castiel’s breath stills next to him, and Dean glances up to see blue eyes staring at him again. The hand falls away, and a curious expression lights up Castiel’s face; he opens his mouth for a second, looking Dean over, then shuts it again. Grabbing the friendship bracelet from Dean’s clenched fingers, Castiel stands and places both of their projects back on the dresser with his buckets of thread and art supplies, leaving Dean to rot on the ground some more. Dean continues to clutch his skull and tries to push the dagger-like headache out from behind his eyes. 

Nonchalantly, Castiel speaks from somewhere to Dean’s left. “What exactly have you felt that feels worse than going through withdrawal for the first time?” 

Dean barks out a harsh laugh, the light streaming in from the window suddenly becoming unbearable on all fronts. He shakes his head, desperately wishes he could be anywhere else. The headache and the question bring Dean crashing back into the reality of where he is, what’s currently going on, and what got him there in the first place. 

Castiel breezes past Dean’s lack of a response, rearranging the buckets before taking a seat on his bed. “I would offer you some of my meds, but I’d hate to be responsible for giving you a new hobby before you’ve even gotten over the first one.” 

The sentence puzzles Dean out of his misery for a second, and he looks up at Castiel in confusion. Reaching for the notepad, he scribbles out _what the hell does that mean_ before returning to his former position. After reading the note, Castiel takes in a breath and lays flat on his bed with feet still grounded. Dean notices that the socks he’s wearing are riddled with holes, but another wave of pain prevents him from thinking about it further. 

“They treat heroin withdrawal with something called methadone, which is basically just heroin’s lamer little brother. It has a similar mechanism of action in your brain, at least. If you took any of mine right now you would probably be high as a kite,” he says breezily. If not for the pounding in Dean’s skull, he would have snapped his head up to stare at him. Alarm bells start flashing behind his eyes, something fearful in his chest. _Fucking heroin? This dork that makes friendship bracelets and draws bees uses heroin?_

Dean scrapes his nails over the crown of his head, starting to fight back another onslaught of nausea on top of the headache. From the bed, Castiel speaks again: “For future reference, you should try to abstain from strenuous activity during the first phases of withdrawal. Tends to make the symptoms worse, which I’m sure you’re aware of by now.” 

Dean flips him the bird without looking up, trying desperately to hold onto his panini from earlier. He grabs for the notepad again. 

_Is that why you’re not on the junkie hike?_

He tosses the notepad right onto Castiel’s chest, a little harder than he should just because the guy was acting like a smartass. Dean smiles a little when the motion shocks Castiel out of his casual posture, and he sits up to read the message. “That’s correct.” 

From his spot on the floor, Dean nods. He has no idea how he’s supposed to get out of there and back to his ward without spewing chunks all over the place. And while Castiel is a bit of cheeky bastard, he gave Dean a place to hide. So Dean really doesn’t want to spew chunks in Castiel’s room in particular. 

“It will pass.” 

At that, Dean looks up for a second. Castiel is gazing at him with a touch of sympathy from his perch on the bed. Dean jots down _how do you know?_

A series of expressions that Dean couldn’t even begin to name cross over his face, and with a weary smile Castiel meets his eyes. 

“You can trust me. I’ve done this five times.” 

Dean’s stomach twists, and another knife jabs into the back of his skull. He wants to stay, ask Castiel why. Make more bracelets, maybe draw a bee. Anything other than going back to his own ward, with Bobby and Charlie and a dozen others staring at him like an animal in a cage. He swallows hard, stares even harder at one of the holes in Castiel’s left sock. A warm hand rests on his shoulder again, heavy. 

“Dean. I’ll help you up and I’ll tell you what you have to do now, okay?” 

He nods quickly, trying to push down the way his whole body feels like it’s on fire. 

Gripping his shoulder tight in one hand, his other arm wrapped around Dean’s back, Castiel hoists him up and steadies him. Dean sways more heavily than he’ll ever admit, and he tries to focus on the way Castiel’s hands root him in place instead of the way he wants to peel his skin off. He keeps one hand over his eyes, the light back to blinding, and Castiel leans in closely. 

“You’re going to walk out of here and go to the medical bay. There’s a nurse there named Meg, and you need to tell her that you have to speak to Garth. He’s kind, and he’ll take you back to your ward. He can handle everything else. You’re lucky this place doesn’t have enough money to have security guards walking around,” Castiel finishes, and Dean can hear a smile at the end of the sentence. 

Castiel walks him to the door, opens it softly, and points Dean back in the right direction. Dean fights the fluorescent lights in the hallway to look at Castiel in the eye again, desperately working up the nerve to say _thanks, man._ Or something like that. If he could thank the lady at the grocery store who gave him a few bucks, it should be nothing to thank this random guy who just pulled Dean out of the hell that is withdrawal. 

But the longer he looks at him, the further away his voice feels. Castiel quirks another smile at him before slipping a small note in the front pocket of his scrubs, ripped from the notepad at some point when Dean was busy feeling like death. 

“The doors aren’t alarmed until midnight, if you want to come finish your bracelet sometime. Or try some methadone,” he says, voice dry. Dean’s eyes widen, and Castiel huffs out a laugh that has no right being as gorgeous as it is. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep all the opiates to myself.” 

He looks at Dean a second longer before stepping back inside his room. “Goodbye, Dean.” 

The door clicks shut quietly, and Dean hobbles down the hallway as quickly as he can without tripping over his own feet. The tiles look like they’re moving of their own volition, which makes walking solidly difficult. In the haze of pain, Dean thinks that this feels a whole lot like being blackout drunk without _any_ of the benefits. 

It takes him ten minutes to stumble to the medical bay, but he finally gets there and takes a break at the little waiting room to keep from fainting. Dean curls over himself, lets his head hang heavy over his knees. The posture forces the little note to fall out of his pocket, and he grabs it from the floor quickly. He dusts it off before unfolding the little sheet of paper. His vision feels a little blurry, but he focuses all of his remaining energy on deciphering the lines on the page. 

_Room 122. Hope your headache gets better._

At the bottom of the page is a doodle of a small black bird. 

Dean grins for a second before another wave of pain sends him careening back over his knees, almost strong enough that he curls up on the floor. He’s gathering the strength to walk to the door when he hears it clang open, sound amplified in his ears -- a young woman, about Charlie’s age, is standing with her hands on her hips. 

“What are you doing on my unit?” 

Dean manages to swing his head up enough to start saying _I need to speak to Garth_ when everything goes black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: explicit discussion of withdrawal, mention of drug abuse, mention of alcoholism, explicit and detailed discussion of friendship bracelet making process


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll climb through the window again  
> But right now it feels good not to stand  
> Then I'll leave it wide open  
> Let the dystopian morning light pour in"
> 
> \--icu, phoebe bridgers

The first thing Dean notices when he wakes up is a dull throb in his left wrist. Before he opens his eyes, he feels the pain and reaches over with his other hand to grab it; but instead of finding his own skin, he feels something plastic, foreign. He cracks one eye open to see a tube sticking out of his arm, IV placed on his forearm right above his wrist. Eyes tracking further up his arm, he notices gauze taped to the inside of his elbow and on the other side of his arm too. He makes an attempt to sit up, but his skull feels like it’s full of water -- his head lolls to the side, and he groans with the effort of trying to twist his neck around. 

“Sorry if your arm hurts a little. Your blood pressure was so low that I had to stick you a couple of times,” Charlie chirps from the other side of the room. Dean lets out a breath, closing his eyes again and deciding to let the water in his head weigh him down. 

“You’re a fast runner. You ever do cross country in school?” Charlie asks, voice still bright and cheerful. Dean stays quiet, slowly coming back to full awareness of where he is and what he’s done. _Fuck._

Charlie rummages around on the other side of the room for a few more minutes, and eventually Dean hears her shoes squeak to a stop at his right. “You’ve got fluids and a sedative running through that IV to help with the withdrawal, but you should drink some water. Here.” 

He opens his eyes and grabs the small styrofoam cup. His head feels a little less heavy, and he can sit up just enough to get a full gulp down. After he finishes sipping down half the liquid in the cup, Charlie takes it back from him and places it on a little table next to the bed. In his periphery, Dean sees her shoulders sag a little bit. “Can we talk for a second? Seriously?” 

Dean wills his neck to move, tries to shift in the bed a little to see Charlie better. It takes an effort that feels Herculean, but after twenty seconds he’s managed to put her silhouette squarely in the center of his gaze. He lets his chin drop forward a little, and Charlie accepts it for the nod that it’s supposed to be. 

“Intake interviews are the scariest. But y’know, fear is the path to the dark side, fear leads to anger and hate, hate leads to suffering, all that jazz? It’s not good for anyone here, but _especially_ you if you go all Darth Vader whenever you get spooked,” she says, eyebrows drawn together. Even though he just gulped down half a cup of water, Dean’s mouth feels dry. 

“You can do this. There are bumps in the road for everybody. But we’re here to help you become a Jedi Knight, not a Sith Lord.” 

He stares at her for a second and tries to focus on the throbbing in his arm instead of the weird feeling in his chest. If Dean felt like talking, he would have told Charlie to fuck off -- using a Star Wars metaphor to talk about how fucked up he was didn’t make it any easier. Bitterness rises up in his throat, and it gives him just enough strength to turn away from her. 

_Never heard of a Jedi who was a whore first._

Charlie reaches out to pat his arm, and he jerks back from her. “I’m sorry,” she says, and he doesn’t look at her but he knows that her face is remorseful. “I’m sorry.” 

After a couple of seconds, she sighs and walks back to the other side of the room. Dean’s eyes trail her, and he notices the clock in the room reads six o’clock. Charlie is jotting down notes on a little stack of papers, and Dean mentally scoffs. _My fucking file. Go ahead, write down how much of an asshole I am_ he thinks, and briefly considers ripping the IV out of his arm just so Charlie will have to put it in again. He feels strong enough to do it now -- whatever sedatives they had him on are wearing off.

Once her notes are completed, she faces him again and puts on a cheerful expression. “You’ve just got ten minutes left on your fluids and then you can grab something from the cafeteria. Usually they have crafts or group sessions at night depending on the schedule, but Bobby said you can chill out in your room tonight.” 

Dean doesn’t respond, instead casting a look at the door and drawing his lips together tightly. Charlie looks at him for a second longer before deflating and getting back on the stool, keyboard clicking away. She doesn’t speak again, and for a second Dean starts to feel bad. Nothing but kindness has come from Charlie, even though she’s stuck Dean with needles at least five times within a twelve-hour timespan now. _Why can’t I just be fucking nice to her?_

He swallows hard, starts wondering to himself why he can’t let her in. Can’t let anyone in, really -- except Sam. But Sam feels more like an extension of himself in his mind, something like an extra pair of hands or a third leg. A third leg with too-long hair and a full ride to Stanford, but still a third leg. Sam is allowed to stay simply because he’s always been there. 

_Not like he even knows everything._ He exhales, hard.

This is the first time that Dean’s been sober enough to think this long about how he feels (or about anything) in months, and he feels a wave of exhaustion hit him. He closes his eyes, wants to drift off to sleep and never wake up, but the beeping of the IV machine shakes him back into reality. Rising silently from her seat, Charlie grabs another few pieces of gauze and some tape. 

She puts on a pair of gloves and turns off the loud machine. Working quickly, she removes the tape from his IV and disposes of the tubing before taping gauze to the insertion site. It hurts when she tugs it out, and a small noise escapes Dean’s throat before he can stop it. 

“Sorry, I had to go near your radial nerve. Sensitive spot, I try to avoid it. Your veins were dodging me almost as fast as you did earlier,” she says, and Dean catches her eye and lifts one corner of his mouth up. _Gotta be less of a dick to the person who has to stab you._

After seeing the hint of a smile, Charlie lights up again. “You can come back tomorrow morning after breakfast to get your meds. You’re taking Valium to help manage the withdrawal symptoms. It might make you a little tired, but you won’t have to take it longer than a week.” Dean nods at her and swings his legs over the side of the bed, waits for his vision to stop swimming before he stands. Charlie moves back to the other side of the room, sliding on a thin pink jacket and tossing a few supplies in a black backpack. 

“Dinner’s lasagna, I think. Tell Jody you got jabbed in your radial today, she’ll give you extra,” Charlie says over her shoulder. 

Dean walks back to the door connecting to the ward, pauses when his fingers wrap around the handle. He feels hot tears well up in his eyes at the small kindness, throat closing up around the words he so desperately wants to get out. 

_C’mon, motherfucker. Be a Jedi._

He opens his mouth, breathes in and gets ready to say it. 

“Dean? Do you need anything else?” 

His hand tightens, a tear rolls down his cheek. Jaw clicking as he closes his mouth. With a heavy breath, he shakes his head. 

“Okay, then you can go ahead and get out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow, let me know how you feel in the morning.” 

He exits the room and shuts the door, stands by himself in the little waiting area where he met Bobby earlier. Scrubbing the tears out of his eyes, he stands for a second in front of the shitty little paintings again. The _“Restore Us To Sanity”_ rainbow glares at him. 

_Tomorrow._

_I can do it tomorrow._

  
  


***

  
  


Despite his usual insomnia, Dean sleeps dreamlessly through the night and well into the morning. He misses breakfast at eight, and by nine he hears a rapping of knuckles on his door. 

“Winchester! Up and at ‘em,” Bobby calls through the door, and Dean scrambles out of bed. Exchanges his rotting pair of scrubs from yesterday for an identical pair that smells like the cheap detergent they use on the ward. For a second, Dean pauses: _if this is what the detergent smells like then how the hell is Castiel Novak smelling like a field of fucking lavender?_

He pushes the thought into the back of his mind, trying not to think too hard about the guy. After all, they might never even be in a therapy session together -- and Dean doesn't want to risk getting on Bobby's super bad side from sneaking into the narcotics ward _again_ when he's already on Bobby's bad side. 

(He wants to finish his friendship bracelet. And even more than that, he wants Castiel to put a warm, steadying hand on his shoulder. But those are two big things to want, especially at the same time, so Dean folds his thoughts together neatly and tucks them away in the back of his brain next to _Mom Dying_ and _Dad's Greatest Hits._ )

He worms his feet into the ward-provided white shoes that are just a bit too big, wincing at blistery ankles from his sprint around the unit yesterday. Bobby knocks on the door again, and Dean hobbles next to it briefly to offer a knock in return. “Ain’t got all day, Sleeping Beauty. I’ve got an intake appointment with your name on it.” 

Dean feels a wave of worry course down his spine. _Fuck. This. Fuck, fuck -- where’s my jacket? It’s so goddamn cold in here, where the hell is it? What the fuck is wrong with me?_

Scrambling around the room for his one singular possession, panic grips him. Under the bed, inside each drawer, tangled up in his sheets. Anxiety reaches up through the ground, wrestles his ankles to the tile and cements him to the floor. Dean feels sweat starting to collect on his palms. 

Another bang on the door. _“Winchester!”_

Lungs deflating, he runs his hands up and down his arms. _Fuck. Fuck, Dad would be so fucking mad,_ he thinks, and his hands still. Dean has a series of three unpleasant thoughts that connect in a way he hadn't realized before. Tears, unbidden, well up in his eyes. 

_He’d be pissed that I even kept it._

He lets his arms fall at his sides. With a sigh, he makes his way to the door. Bobby must hear him come closer because he doesn’t knock again, and Dean sees the shadow of his feet move back under the door. He rests his forehead against the wood, just for a second, and wills the tears away. Once they’re gone, he lets his hand twist the handle to reveal one surly Bobby behind the entrance. 

“Took you long enough, kid,” he says, but there’s no bite to the words. His eyes are tired. “Charlie passed your meds off to me, got a little pill cup and some water just for you in my office.” 

Dean nods at him, follows him down the hall. There are other residents in the group therapy room as he passes, and he notices a different counselor in the middle of the circle. Her voice carries out into the hallway with a similar twang to Bobby’s. She’s moving around the circle, looking at each person as she speaks. She has a small plastic rifle in her hand that she uses to gesture around the room.

“...as I’m sure some of you have heard, we had a bit of a runaway situation yesterday. And we’re covering family today, so I know that plenty of y’all are gonna want to get the hell outta Dodge, but I _implore_ you--” she turns to the open door, and locks eyes with Dean. He stares, and she stares back. 

After a second, she smiles. 

“I implore you to leave the running to our Usain Bolt on the ward,” she turns back around to her circle, and a bit of the tension leaves Dean’s shoulders. “Besides, no matter how far you run you always end up comin’ home in some way or another.” 

“Winchester,” Bobby huffs, and Dean is startled back into the task at hand. Bobby’s head is sticking out of the doorway, and Dean follows him. 

The room has been pieced back together since his meltdown yesterday. There is, however, a dent in the wall from where he launched his chair. Embarrassment floods his cheeks, and he rubs the back of his neck with his hand. He misses his jacket. Needs it. 

Bobby catches him staring, and makes a small grunt in response. “Don’t be worried about that. Had someone toss my favorite lamp at me one time. Everybody here gets a little worked up at some point, just got yours outta the way early.” He hands Dean a little cup with a white pill inside and another cup of water, watches him swallow and gulp down the rest of the liquid.

Dean shrugs, quietly takes a seat in the chair he threw yesterday across Bobby’s small desk. His office is the only room that isn’t beige, painted a dark green instead. It’s almost the same shade as Dean’s scrubs, and he would give anything to melt into the walls. He tries to find something in the room to focus on, glances around the stacks of papers and packed bookshelves. Bobby clears his throat after placing a notepad and pen on the desk, and Dean swallows. He wipes his sweaty hands on the bottom of his scrub top. 

“That’s Ellen, in group. She’s a riot,” he says, voice going soft around the edges. “I think you’ll like her. But you can’t meet her unless you get through this with me first, son.” 

Dean meets Bobby’s gaze for the first time that morning. 

“You ready?” 

Dean shuts his eyes for a second, squeezes them tight. It feels like he’s clenching his jaw so tightly he’ll crack a tooth. 

_Be a Jedi._

He looks Bobby in the eye and gives one quick nod. Bobby returns the gesture, lets out a soft breath. 

“Alright. Let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: mention of prostitution, mention of child abuse, mention of violence


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Situations get fucked up  
> And turned around sooner or later  
> And I could be another fool  
> Or an exception to the rule  
> You tell me the morning after  
> Crooked spin can't come to rest  
> I'm damaged bad at best"
> 
> \--say yes, elliott smith

“What makes you want to have a drink in the morning?” Bobby asks, and Dean thinks. Clenches his fists hard into the hem of his scrubs, feels his heartbeat start to pick up. He takes a deep breath in and shuts his eyes. 

He remembers. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


_He heard Monica Evans talking about it in his seventh period freshman Spanish class. Julia Snyder, who was a junior, had been hooking on the corner of Green Avenue and Washington Street last Friday._

_“She looked like a total whore. I saw her get in someone’s car and drive off. God, imagine having to pay to fuck Julia Snyder! She should be paying them,” Monica had said, venomous. If there was anything he’d learned over the past few years in this school district, it was that the boys were mean but the girls were even meaner._

_And even though he knew it would be better to steer clear of Monica Evans and her clique of four other vipers, he was curious. A lot of rumors floated around the school, but one of their peers being a prostitute? Something that juicy hadn’t come up in a long time. Not since two sophomores had dropped out of school to raise a baby on their own._

_“How much she charge?” Dean tosses the question out casually from two seats over, not even bothering to look up at Monica._

_From the back of the room, Nathan Forester pipes up. “Can’t find a better way to get rid of your virginity, Winchester?”_

_The people around him snicker, and he pushes down the flush in his cheeks. He tugs his leather jacket tighter around his shoulders, much too big for his small frame. His dad had left it on the couch this time, walking out without a word five weeks ago. Dean was starting to get nervous -- when he left before, there had been enough money on the table to pay the bills and grab groceries. A note, too. This time, there was nothing._

_Hungry to get back the attention of the class, Monica clears her throat. “To answer your question, it looked like at least five twenties. I don’t know what he was buying, but I can’t imagine anyone ever spending that much money on someone with a chest that flat,” she laughs, tossing her hair over shoulder as she finishes her sentence._

_Dean nods, knowing that no one is paying attention to him anymore and content with that reality. He thinks about the stack of bills that arrived last week from the electric company, the water bill, another from a company he didn’t recognize. The total came out to a little over one hundred fifty dollars. He’s down to seventy two bucks of his own, and he knows fifteen of those are going to go to dinner for him and Sam tonight. It’s winter, and he doesn’t have any more lawns to mow. And he can’t drive their shitty old Impala parked in the driveway because Dad never helped him get his learner’s permit, so he can’t get a job at the grocery store across town either._

_For the rest of class, Dean crunches numbers in his notebook and thinks about how pretty he is compared to Julia Snyder._

  
  


***

  
  


_He stretches their money over five more days, and then it’s gone. He hopes desperately in those five days for his dad to come home. And the thing is, Dean hates it when Dad is home; he’s always wasted, and more often than not he’s raring for a fight. Sam thinks he’s old enough to handle it now because he’s in middle school, but he hasn’t realized yet that hitting back is just going to end up with harder hits the second time around._

_And even with all of that shit, Dean wants him to come back._

_But the fifth day comes, and they spend their last dollars on two Happy Meals because those are the cheapest things on the menu. There’s still some food in the fridge for a couple of days, but Dean had a test today and he got chewed out by the principal for being late again, and he was just too tired. So the money’s gone, and the bills are still there. And Dad’s still gone._

_He did some research on what to do, as a hooker. There was a lot of literature, being the world's oldest profession and all. But his research didn’t reveal how to get someone to realize what he was offering, or how much to charge. It didn’t tell him how far to go, nor did it explain if this would be different than his one singular encounter with a pretty boy from the cross-country team after they got paired up for a project._

_The main thing that he learns is that he just needs to look nice. People had complimented him before, at restaurants or on the street. And it usually made him a little uncomfortable, but maybe that would make this easier. People looking at him, getting to have him. Plus, this is something he was supposed to want -- why not try and make a little money too?_

_So, he tries to look nice. He puts on the same outfit he wore on his movie date with Lisa Braeden, because that was good enough to make her hold his hand. Maybe it’ll be good enough to get someone to pick him up from the corner._

_It’s ten when he finishes getting dressed and combing his hair into place, and he feels anxiety crawling up the back of his throat. He swallows it back with a shot of whiskey to help, and tells Sam that he needs to be in bed by midnight._

_“Where are you going?”_

_“It’s Friday, I’m gonna see some friends,” Dean lies easily for the fifth time that day, ruffling Sam’s hair as he walks by the ratty couch to the door._

_“What friends?”_

_“Don’t be a bitch, Sammy.”_

_“I’m not!”_

_“Yeah, you are. If Dad shows, tell him I’ll be back soon.”_

_Sam breathes out a sigh and nods. Before Dean can shut the door, he calls out._

_Angry, Dean pokes his head back in. He’s finally worked up the nerve to go out and do this, now Sam won’t let him leave -- the longer he looks at his little brother, the more he wants to just stay inside. “What, Sam?”_

_The younger boy stares at him for a second, bangs flopping over his forehead. “Promise you’ll be back?”_

_Dean’s hand tightens on the doorknob. He puts on a bright smile and salutes his brother. “Promise. Right hand to God.”_

_He leaves._

  
  
  


***

  
  


_It takes him a long time to find a place to stand downtown. It’s cold outside, and he stuffs his hands deep in his pockets to ward away the cold. He doesn’t see Julia Snyder, or just about anyone else -- most people walking the streets at this hour are going from bar to bar, and there are only a handful of places open this late in Lawrence, Kansas._

_Panic is starting to settle in once it hits 12:00am. He has no money, he’s freezing, and it’s going to be at least a thirty minute walk back home. Bitterly, he takes solace in the fact that there won’t be anything to steal except for the clothes off his back if he’s mugged. With hot tears streaming down his face, Dean starts the long walk home._

_As he passes the last bar downtown before the city splits into apartments and suburbs, a gray car rolls up next to him. He stops, and the car stops with him. Inside is an older man with dark glasses and blond hair. The car reeks of cigarettes, and Dean can smell it even in the cold night air. He starts to shake, and he tries not to think about how the temperature has nothing to do with that._

_“Do you need a ride?” The man calls out to him, eyes rolling up and down Dean's body. His fingers are loose on the steering wheel, and he wears a suit the same color as his car._

_Dean stares at him for a second, walks a little closer to the car. He peers in the back and sees empty seats, only a coat and a briefcase tossed inside. Shifting his gaze back to the front of the vehicle, Dean takes a huge gulp of air. Sharp heat crawls up his neck at the way the older man leers at him. He spent an hour this afternoon planning what he would say, trying to come up with the right mix of enticing but professional. Whatever phrase he settled on is gone, though -- he's so scared that he can barely think, let alone speak. But he knows that he has to._

_“I don’t have any money,” he says. The words exit his mouth without permission, escaping his filter entirely. Not only do his words sound pathetic, but his voice comes out weaker and higher than he intends._

_The man smiles at him. “That won’t be a problem.”_

_He gets in the car._

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


_It hurts more than he expects. Thirty minutes after being picked up, the man drops him off three blocks from home. Dean cries when he tries to sit on the curb and realizes that he can’t._

_He tells himself to get a fucking grip and grits his teeth, clenches the money in his pocket. It wasn’t much, but it would get them through a few more days. He would just have to go back again. And again._

_In the back of his mind, his thoughts are screaming. All but one get pushed down and away: just until Dad comes back._

_When he finally gets home, he’s so exhausted that he thinks he could probably fall asleep in one of the piles of snow outside of their shitty apartment. The stairs hurt more than walking on flat ground, but he just lets the burning work through his body. Tries to get familiar with it._

_As he opens the door, he sees a dark shape splayed out over the couch. Dean’s heart starts racing as he moves closer, elation lighting up his body at the thought of never, ever having to do this ever again; but as his eyes adjust to the shadows, he recognizes the familiar sweep of brown hair and long limbs. Sam breathes deeply with a huge quilt draped over his body, making him appear twice his actual size. It’s probably the only time in his life that Dean's ever been disappointed to see his little brother, but the feeling caves his chest in._

_Dean limps into the room, sweeps a hand over Sam’s forehead to push his too-long bangs out of the way. Dean smiles at him, briefly._

_He walks through the kitchen to his bedroom and drops two crumpled twenty-dollar bills on the counter._

  
  


***

  
  


Dean opens his eyes and looks at Bobby once. With shaking hands, he reaches out for the notepad and pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: mention of child abuse/neglect, discussion of underage prostitution (before and after only. NOT graphically discussed), brief underage drinking.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I was referring to the present in past tense  
> It was the only way that I could survive it  
> I want to close my head in the car door  
> I want to sing this song like I'm dying
> 
> Heavy boots on my throat I need  
> I need something soon  
> I need something soon"
> 
> -something soon, car seat headrest

Dean walks out of the intake appointment after three hours, and by that time lunch is in full swing. Bobby has five pages of notes, not including what Dean writes for him, and there’s a note of weariness in his voice when he tells Dean that he can leave and grab some food. 

“Tell Jody you had your intake today. She’ll give you extra,” he calls out after Dean walks through his office door, and Dean crooks up the corner of his mouth. It seems like Jody will give out extras to just about anyone who asks, and he starts to think that she might be a lot kinder than her harsh expression gives away. 

He feels fatigued even though the day is only halfway over, and he can’t fathom how people here get through two therapy sessions per day with constant activities in between. Bobby told him that he could pick to go with the hiking group or the crafting group after lunch since he’d just finished his intake, but after today he’d be sorted specifically like the rest of the patients on the ward. 

As he walks to the cafeteria, he weighs his options. On the one hand, it would be awfully nice to get a whiff of air that didn’t smell like it was drowning in hand sanitizer or see some non-fluorescent light. On the other hand, they might have some thread in the crafting room for him to practice making a bracelet. And if he doesn’t quite remember how to make the diagonal pattern or how long to cut the strings, maybe Castiel Novak would be there to help him remember. 

The cafeteria is a large, informal space with a few tables of varying size scattered around the area. The serving bar is in the back of the room, and it seems like Jody is an ever-present force within the facility. At dinner last night, Dean just snagged a breadstick and went to bed -- the nausea had persisted despite the medication, and Jody had been solidly offended when he had shaken his head at a plate of lasagna. She told him that you couldn’t get a healthy mind without a healthy body, and Dean had just shrugged and walked away; he’d survived on a fast food-heavy diet for the last fifteen or so years, and he could still run pretty fast. His thoughts moved pretty fast, too -- and really, what more could he ask for? 

As he approaches the bar, Jody cocks her head to the side and stands up straight. Dean offers a weak smile, extending his hands out to his sides just a little. She raises an eyebrow. 

“You gonna eat today or am I gonna have to shove it down your throat?” 

With everything he just told Bobby fresh in his mind, the phrasing shakes him a little. But he grits his teeth and shoves the feeling away quickly, instead just shrugging his shoulders. He walks up and down the bar, pretending to think over his options. There’s a tray of leftover lasagna and another of sandwiches, alongside some little bowls of salad and fruit. Cookies down at the very end, which he pauses to take a closer look at. When Dean looks back up at Jody to point at what he wants (a sandwich and a cookie), she instead hands him a full plate. 

He stares at her before accepting the dish, looking down at a plate covered with more green than he’s seen in years. She hands him some cutlery, breaking him out of his little salad-induced trance, and manages to not make a snarky comment for the first time since she and Dean have interacted. 

“Congrats on finishing your intake. It’s a tough one,” she says, expression neutral. Dean looks down at his plate again before shrugging with one shoulder. Terrified of what he might do if he thinks about how much he told Bobby for one more second, he turns on his heel to find a table. 

There are about a dozen other patients on the ward, and all of them stare as he walks around looking for a table. The younger patients are sitting together at one table, but they still look about ten years older than Dean. The others look to be in their fifties, and they’re scattered in pairs or in solitude around the room. Anxiety thrashing around in his gut, Dean swallows and avoids as many gazes as he can while he walks to the back of the room, close to the too-high windows. _Always been an old soul, anyway,_ he thinks, and digs into his sandwich by himself. 

After he gets through with his meal, only fifteen minutes have passed for their lunch hour. His nervousness returns -- what is he supposed to do? Go back to his room? Everyone else appeared to be sitting in quiet conversation or reading books, one man lazily scribbling in a journal. Every few minutes, he catches someone in the room glancing his way -- mostly just the younger men, but it still makes Dean itch. He doesn’t like being looked at, especially not right now. Just twenty minutes ago he was rubbing his heart all over his fucking sleeves, an absolute open book; it feels like every word he wrote down is projected over his head.

He imagines a glaring neon sign with a gigantic arrow pointing down at him, broadcasting the word _“whore”_ in shining letters. That pill from Charlie had to have some kind of truth serum in it, because Dean Winchester was not the transparent type -- but in those three hours, he told Bobby about 20% of what had happened to him. And that was more than anyone else had ever known. 

His natural response after opening up to anyone is to shut down, so that’s what he does. Dean sits in silence and allows his shoulders to drop down and forward, hunching in and trying to melt into his uncomfortable chair. He yearns for something to hold, anything to occupy his hands and eyes and brain -- distantly, he wonders if Sam would mail him a copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five._ He’d read it countless times already, but he just needed something to look at. Something to hold--

“Hey, brother,” a voice says to his right. 

Dean looks up to see a man in his thirties, a thick brown beard obscuring most of his face. Louisiana drips off his words like honey, and Dean wonders what someone with a voice like that is doing in a place this far north of the Mason-Dixon line. 

Dean waves at him and gulps before looking back down at his empty plate, hoping that will be the end of their discussion. The man sounds friendly, but Dean isn’t interested in making friends at the moment; in fact, the last thing he wants to do on the face of the earth is share any more information about himself with another soul. Especially not one that he’s going to have to live with for the next few months. 

“Name’s Benny. We’ve been callin’ you Cinderella on the ward since we didn’t have a chance to get your name before you ran,” he says with a soft chuckle. Benny leans back into his heels and tucks his hands in his pockets, the definition of casual. Dean swallows again and tries to ignore the anger that ticks up behind his eyes. He had more than a few bad memories of getting called _Princess,_ and Cinderella wasn’t too far off. 

Benny lingers by his side before moving across the table to sit at the opposite chair. Dean looks into his eyes again briefly, unable to read the expression on the other man’s face. 

“I heard you don’t like to talk much, so I’ll do most of it for now,” he says, sighing as he crosses his arms and leans over the table. “Group sessions are tough the first go around when you don’t know anybody, so I figured I’d give you a heads up.” 

A bead of sweat drips down Dean’s back. He looks up again, sees Benny’s open expression and kind smile. 

In the back of his mind, Sam’s voice ricochets: _what friends?_

Dean nods once, and Benny leans close to him on one elbow. With his other hand resting on the corner of the table, he subtly points to a boy who looks even younger than Dean. He’s got dark hair cropped close to his skull and big brown eyes -- he looks like someone Sam may have befriended in high school, and the idea makes his heart hurt. 

“That’s Kevin. He’s nineteen and he just got here. His mom sent him here after he dropped out of college. He’s quiet too, so you’ll get along like two peas in a pod,” Benny says, and as he looks Kevin up and down he meets Dean’s eyes and waves. Embarrassed, Dean looks back down -- but Benny just laughs, claps a hand on his arm for a second. “Everyone wants to get to know you, so this info is free to share. Don’t worry.” 

The thought of all of them getting together, wanting to _know_ him, is enough to make Dean’s relatively massive lunch roil around in his stomach. He pushes down the nausea and nods, waiting for Benny to continue. 

“Mullet over there is Ash. Bartender who got carried away, but a genius. Rufus and Lee over there playin’ blackjack, both of ‘em got some wife issues and some family issues.” 

Slowly, Benny works his way through each member of the ward. Some have significantly more detail than others, but every person has a reason for drinking -- Dean can’t help but notice that no one else has the reason of being an HIV-positive former prostitute, though. Once Benny finishes up, Dean looks at him expectantly. 

“What?” 

Dean points at him directly, raises his eyebrows. Benny leans back in his chair at the gesture and shakes his head softly, smiles. “Really thought I’d distract you from asking about me by dishing it out on everyone else.” Dean returns Benny’s soft expression, and it’s his first genuine grin all day. 

“I lost my job, lost my girl, lost my best friend. Just too much.” 

Dean’s smile fades, and he looks away from Benny as his eyebrows knit together. Sometimes, he gets tired of feeling like he can’t talk -- but in moments like these, when he truly has no idea of what to say, he’s grateful for the silence. 

“You gotta tell everyone why you’re here by the second or third session. Not all of it, but some of it,” Benny says, voice going soft. “I started with the job. Felt easier.” 

Dean nods without making eye contact again. The vulnerability is pulling him harshly along two opposite sides of the spectrum -- on one side, he wants to scream out everything that’s ever happened to him, fit in alongside the members of this group. Feel belonging, for the first time. 

On the other side, he knows that what he is, what he’s done, is too disgusting to ever be accepted by anyone. The option of retreating further seems vastly more appealing, and Dean can run off into his own personal purgatory of never being seen or understood. After all, rejection isn’t even an option when you don’t offer people the _chance_ of acceptance. 

So Dean just nods one more time, doesn’t react when Benny stands from his chair and sticks his hands back into his pockets. “See you around, brother.” 

He saunters back to the table with Kevin and Ash, and Dean’s left feeling gutted for some reason. The small kindness of introducing him to everyone in the least fear-inducing way was just -- so _thoughtful._ His mind races back through the stories of everyone sitting around him, and Dean pushes down the tears in his eyes and the rapid tightness in his throat. He isn’t used to kindness, especially from this many people in such rapid succession, and he doesn’t know what to do with whatever it is that he’s feeling. All he can tell is that it’s _too much,_ and if he sits at this table for one more second he’s going to bolt for the exit again. 

He retreats from the dining hall and sits against the door of his bedroom, gasping heavy breaths into his lungs. A hallway clock told him that he had five minutes to collect himself before going to the craft room, and he relishes the time in his little room. 

_I miss my jacket._

Dean curls his arms around himself, tucks his face into his chest and tries to make himself as small as he possibly can. He lets two sobs wrack his body before pressing his knuckles into his eyes, hard. Holds his breath as long as he can before heaving out one last breath. He thinks about his lungs collapsing, chest caving in; a small black hole sucking up the rest of him into nothingness.

_I’m nothing. This is nothing, and I’m nothing. It’s fine._

Dean collects himself, dusts off his scrubs, and shakes the cold of the ward out of his arms. After counting three more breaths, he walks out of the safety of his bedroom and toward the unknown of the craft room. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


The skinniest man that Dean has ever seen is waiting at the door of the craft room welcoming people inside. Unlike the rest of the staff that Dean has encountered so far, this man has a sunny disposition and friendly tone -- every person walking in gets a _hello, so happy to see you,_ and Dean doesn’t really know what to do with that. When he gets to the door, the counselor smiles at him with a kindness so earnest that it almost makes Dean start hyperventilating again. 

“Hello, you must be new! I’m Garth, so happy to have you here,” he says, extending a hand for Dean to shake. He does, gingerly, before staring at Garth in question. The other man looks at him for a second before exclaiming. “Oh, yes! Of course, never been here before -- just take a seat inside, once everyone’s here we’ll go over our options for today.” 

Dean nods once in response before entering the room, noticing immediately that it’s almost 100% female. They’re also almost all in blue scrubs instead of the dark green on his own body, and he feels the same kind of otherness that he did in the dining room earlier. He scans the small group of about fifteen people, trying to decide who would be a safe option to sit next to, when he hears a familiar voice curl around his name. 

“Dean,” Castiel says from Dean’s left, tucked into a corner behind a stack of art supplies. He’s at a table that looks built for one, but he grabs another chair and sets it up on the other side. “Glad to see you.” 

A sigh escapes Dean’s mouth as he sits across from Castiel, and the other man perks up. “Long day?” 

Dean nods, rubs a hand down his face before resting it on his palm. Castiel looks at him intently with his arms crossed on the table, colorful bracelets looking ridiculous in combination with his serious expression. Raising his eyebrows, Dean gestures at the bracelets and looks back at Castiel. 

“I finished the green one, but I figured you would want to finish yours yourself,” he says, and digs the bracelet out of his jacket pocket. _He had it just in case he would see me?_ Dean thinks, trying not to let a blush creep up his cheeks. _Cut that shit out. He probably just wanted your shitty art project out of his sight._

Castiel offers the bundle of threads back to Dean, and Dean tries not to dwell on the surge of warmth he feels when their fingertips brush together. He nods in thanks, stares back down at his tangled mess compared to the many pristine examples of craftsmanship on Castiel’s wrists. 

“If you have trouble again, we can go over it once more if you want,” he suggests, and Dean is about to accept the offer when Garth pipes up from the front of the room. 

“Alright! We’ve got everyone here for art therapy today. The point of this is to get those emotions out into the physical world, so put whatever you want into these pieces, ladies and gents. We’ve got watercolors, some oil pastels, and origami today. If you already have a project to work on, keep it up. Get your soul on the paper!” 

Dean rolls his eyes when he looks at Castiel again, and the other man offers him a little smile. A little piece of paper and pen emerges from the depths of Castiel’s scrub pocket, and he scribbles out a message. After he slides the paper to Dean, he gets up to retrieve some sheets of origami from the front -- gives him space to think about his response.

_Why the long day?_

He stares at the little message, the barely-legible curves of Castiel’s script. At the front of the room, Dean hears Garth speaking to him: “Novak, when are you gonna make me one of those? How do I get up further on your friend list?” 

“If your therapy sessions are so effective that I don’t shoot up within twenty-four hours of leaving this facility next time, I’ll mail you one,” Castiel says, voice dry. Dean’s eyes widen, but no one else in the class responds to the bluntness of his comment -- not even Garth, who just claps Castiel on the shoulder and tells him that he can do anything he sets his mind to. 

Dean’s mind drifts to the usage of _Novak._ He’s only known Castiel for a couple of days, but he can already tell that he isn’t a last-name-as-a-chosen-name kind of guy. _That’s football player bullshit,_ Dean thinks; and while Castiel is clearly a strong dude, he’s not that type of person. He’s got crazy hair and makes art and saves people he’s never met -- he’s not a Novak, certainly not a Castiel. Dean has an idea, but he mulls it over in his head before softly testing out the word in his mouth -- there’s no one close enough to hear him whisper. 

_Cas._

_Yeah, that’s better._

Cas starts walking back to their table, and Dean quickly writes out a reply. When he takes his seat again, he cranes his neck to read the note. “Intake appointment? Condolences.” 

At that, Dean just shrugs and starts working on his knots again. He’s tangled up some of the strings again somehow, but he wants to finish it himself without help. For just an hour, he wants to stop thinking about where he is and why he’s there. Cas doesn’t write him any more notes or comment on Dean’s obviously forgotten technique, just works on making what looks to be the Mount Everest of paper cranes. 

Their creative hour passes smoothly, just quiet noises of pencil on paper and the occasional compliment drifting throughout the room. Dean ties off his bracelet and braids the ends together, tapping the table to get Castiel’s attention. He looks up from a half-finished purple crane and grabs the bracelet, admires the poor but earnest handiwork. He nods at Dean with a half smile. 

“Exceptional craftsmanship,” he says, and Dean grins. “Put your hand on the table.” 

Without thinking, he automatically follows Castiel’s instruction with his palm up. He loops the bracelet under Dean’s arm and gently ties the ends together, fingers light against the underside of Dean’s wrist. He hopes that Cas can’t feel the way his pulse is beating out of control -- the contact feels more intimate than it should, and Dean thinks about how little people have touched him without a very specific goal in mind. But this, the bracelet -- Castiel is just doing something kind for him. Helping him, _again._

After the knot is finished, Castiel goes back to finishing his crane and Dean admires the way the reds and yellows look together. He finished something -- actually finished something, from beginning to end, and it looks… _good._ Not as good as anything Cas is wearing, but still pretty good for someone who doesn’t know anything about friendship bracelets. With a soft ache in his chest, Dean thinks about how this is the first thing he’s finished for himself in years, probably. 

A bit of pride swells up in his chest, and he grabs the pen and paper again. Scrawls out _thanks, cas_ and slides the paper across the table. 

Castiel doesn’t look up at the note until he finishes the final fold, and a strange expression crosses his face when he does. He looks at Dean, tips his head slightly to the side. 

“Cas?”

Dean feels a little heat run up his back again, shrugs it off and looks back down at the bracelet instead of into the blue of Castiel’s eyes. The other man just makes a soft noise in thought, and when Dean dares to look at him again there’s a hint of a smile in his eyes. 

“I like it. Thank you, Dean.” 

It’s impossible to stop the heat this time, blush crashing over his skin in a way that he _knows_ looks embarrassing. But Cas doesn’t mention it, and they keep working in companionable silence until Garth tells them all to pack up and move on to group sessions in five minutes. 

Castiel waves at Dean before gathering his cranes and heading out the door, leaving Dean to wonder when he could see him next. He doesn’t think about the note tucked away in his room with Cas’s room number -- going there would be too desperate, needy. _You barely fucking know the guy._ He doesn’t know what it is exactly about Castiel that feels so different, but Dean just wants to see more of him. 

Except wanting is a brand new emotion for Dean; and like all of his other feelings, his first instinct is to push it away and ignore it. So he does. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Before group, Dean stops by his room to exchange scrub tops (good Lord, had he always been this sweaty?), and hanging on the doorknob is a small plastic bag containing two cookies with a sticky note slapped next to the door handle. 

_You forgot these at lunch. Happy intake appointment. -Jody_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: mention of prostitution, mention of drug abuse, discussion of friendship bracelet making in depth


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Get yourself together or fall apart  
> Make your mind up or let yourself down  
> Get yourself together or fall apart  
> Make your mind up or let yourself down"
> 
> \--get yourself together, daniel johnston

Dean floats through the rest of the day in a haze. His appointment with Bobby brought up a lot of things he hadn’t thought about in a long time -- and while he was able to push it down in the immediate aftermath, as the hours drag on he has a harder time forgetting. Memories from when he was fifteen, sixteen; just starting out, incapable of setting boundaries with clients. The way he shifted from feeling fear to feeling resigned in less than a year of working. The cold. 

He remembers one man in particular who slapped him across the face so hard that he cried, and then the man left without paying him. 

He remembers the winter of what should have been his senior year of high school, and Sam needed extra clothes, school supplies -- he was growing like a weed, and he needed an entirely new wardrobe. And Dean didn’t want to send him to school in the rags he wore himself because Sam didn’t deserve to get made fun of the way that he did; especially because Sam, outwardly, was a little softer around the edges. So Dean just stopped going to school, instead picking up extra shifts at his day job. And when that wasn’t enough, extra shifts at his other job. 

Everyone has been telling him about how hard group therapy is supposed to be, but by the time the session finishes Dean is so deep in his own head that he’s not taking in a single word that anyone else says. Bobby leads at the front, and Dean’s still aware enough that he waves to the room when he hears his name during introductions -- but after ten more minutes, the voices and stories of those around him are just static. 

_You’re disgusting,_ he thinks. _The shit that you’ve done. For what? To come here?_

He stares down at his lap, hands curled together in tight fists. Bobby is saying something about being thankful for everyone in the circle, his office being open for the next thirty minutes if anyone wanted to talk it out more. 

And the thing is that he _does_ want to talk -- in a way. He wants to want it the same way he wants to want friends or kindness or a warm hand intertwined with his own. But there’s a wall about twenty miles high around his mind and one twice as tall around his heart, so the wanting will have to wait a little longer. 

Sometimes Dean feels like he’s scrambling from behind, desperately trying to get out -- but once he gets to the top, he sees that the path down is full of thorns and fire and dragons and other fucking terrible shit. So he climbs back behind the wall and exists quietly, alone. Free of desire, free of pain. 

In his periphery he notices everyone else standing and getting together to talk, a few people leaving the room for a few minutes alone in their rooms. Numb, Dean follows an older man -- Rufus, he thinks -- into the hallway. He pauses just outside the doorway to lean against the wall, and he closes his eyes for a second. 

_They’re gonna fucking know. All these people are gonna figure out what I am._ Dean squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can, feels hot and heavy tears working their way up. With panic rolling around in his chest, he realizes that he can’t push them away -- _goddamn it._ He hears Benny call out to him from down the hall, but he doesn’t turn around; instead, he walks quickly to his bedroom and shuts the door. _Fuck this. Fuck all of this, fuck this, fuck this._

Shoulders starting to shake, Dean paces around his room. He hits himself in the head once with the flat of his palm, gritting his teeth. 

_What the fuck is wrong with you?_

(He will never tell anyone, but the voice in his head belongs to his father.) 

Dean’s hands curl around his body again as he walks, desperately trying to fend off the temperature of his room -- _where the hell is my jacket?_

Pausing for a moment, he scrapes his nails down his arms just to feel something that isn’t the freezing air around him. It feels colder here than it did last December, huddled outside some rich asshole’s mansion in the boonies, blood dripping -- 

_No._

Dean cradles his head in his hands and forces the memory away. He lands heavily on his mattress, drapes the blankets over himself and curls up as tightly as he can. _I want a drink._ Breath shaking out of his lungs, he thinks about caving in again. Implosion. 

Bright, violent, gone. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


When he wakes up, there’s no light coming in from the tiny window high up on the wall. His head feels foggy, and there’s an exhaustion in his body that sleeping didn’t fix. His mind is moving slower, though, and that’s an improvement. 

Dean untangles his limbs from the sheets, strips off his scrubs and sits in his boxers for a second. He feels grimy, dried sweat sticky on his skin. His hair is greasy, and when he rubs his eyes he can feel dried tears on his cheeks. 

_Gross as hell,_ he thinks, and then gathers another set of scrubs and his little toiletry bag to go to the showers at the end of the hall. 

He peeks his head out of the doorway before walking quietly down the hall, making sure it’s as late as he feels it is. No one is walking around, and the clock on the other end of the hallway confirms that it’s ten. Dean drapes a towel over his shoulders and slowly makes his way to the bathroom, unseen. 

It’s not that he’s overly modest -- he knows he looks good, couldn’t be as good at what he does without it. Sometimes the attention makes him feel nice, even; not always, but on occasion. The thing is that the people here are nice, and nice people usually say something when they see suspicious-looking scars. So Dean’s been waiting to shower, alone. 

There are five stalls in the back of the room, along with sinks, a bench, and a few urinals and toilets separated by a wall near the front. Dean turns on the shower and quickly brushes his teeth before staring at his reflection in the mirror. 

Even though people have told him his entire life that he looks young for his age, Dean has never understood that. What he sees in the mirror is an ancient face: eyes with permanent dark circles, an ever-present scowl turning his otherwise pretty mouth into something ugly. As his eyes track downward, all he sees are tired shoulders and aching knees. Burn scars here and there -- most of them are faded on this part of his body, but he knows they’re worse on his back. 

He shakes his head at the mirror and averts his eyes. The steam rising from the first stall indicates that the water is as ripping hot as he needs it to be, and he lets out a sigh. He strips with closed eyes, dropping his boxers next to his fresh set of scrubs, and gets into the shower. 

The shampoo and soap they provided him are decidedly bland, but they work well enough to rid the dirt from his body. The water turns his skin red, pounds against the tension in his neck and shoulders; Dean lets his head hang forward heavily and relishes in the pure warmth of the shower stall. Long after he’s cleaned up, he lets the water pour over his body. 

Showers have always been safe. He doesn’t have a bad memory in a shower -- these are places that soothed his aches and pains, washed away any evidence of how he existed outside of that space. They belonged to Dean and Dean alone. 

_You’re safe._

He finally turns the faucet off and wraps a towel around his body, drying off the remaining droplets of water before putting on another set of scrubs. As he walks back to his room, he notices that it’s just past ten-thirty -- he feels wide awake from his prolonged nap, and the freezing air on the ward is making him even more alert. 

After getting back to his room, he curls up with the blankets again before the note on his dresser catches his eyes again. Dean retrieves the note, unfolds it; he stares for a long time at the little black bird before noticing that Castiel crosses his t’s in a weird way. 

He traces his fingers over the friendship bracelet on his wrist, and Dean decides that he can’t afford to let his thoughts start racing again. He spends three minutes trying to make his hair look half-decent before saying _fuck it_ and walking to the narcotics ward. 

Once again, the large red warning on the glass doors gives him pause; but he decides to trust what Castiel said. _No alarms until midnight. You better not be fucking with me, Cas._

He pushes through, and the doors are blissfully silent. 

Dean can’t remember the exact location of the bedrooms on this side of the building, but he knows that this ward is just like his except inverted. He traces his steps backwards, walking as silently as he can through the dark halls -- there’s barely any light, just a few dim hallway lights every ten feet or so. When Dean finally distinguishes the numbers on the wall, he can barely make out the numbers _118._

He moves down two more rooms, realizes that he went in the wrong direction, and curses. After finally finding 122, Dean feels his heart about to beat out of his chest. Taking in a deep breath, he knocks twice. 

To no response. 

He waits for a second, feels embarrassment crawl up his spine. _Of course he doesn’t want to fucking see you, he was just being a nice guy when you were flipping out earlier, get away from --_

“Dean?” 

He turns quickly, eyes wide on Cas’s shadowy figure in the hallway. Dumbly, he waves. 

Cas tilts his head to the side, and Dean can’t read his expression but he can hear the warmth in his quiet voice. “Glad to see a fellow night-showerer.” 

Dean smiles in the darkness and shrugs. 

“I’m assuming you’re here for another bracelet-making lesson?” He asks, and Dean nods once. Castiel returns the gesture and closes the distance between them, gently stepping in front of Dean to open his bedroom door. “Let’s not waste any time, then. You’ve only got an hour or so before the door alarm will go off and you're stuck here. And while I’m delightful in the nighttime hours, I can guarantee that you won’t find me as charming between the hours of seven and eleven AM.” 

Dean follows him through the door and takes a seat on the same spot next to the bed as before, watches Castiel haphazardly toss his toiletry bag on the dresser before gathering the same supplies as before. They cut the thread shorter this time, and instead of tons of different colors Cas tells him to just pick three. Dean chooses three shades of blue, mourning the way he can’t see Castiel’s eyes clearly in the poor lighting of his room. There’s a street lamp outside of Cas’s window, just enough for them to work by -- but it cuts Castiel’s features sharply, making him look more like an inked-in comic hero than a real person. 

“This is a fast pattern, so you can finish it tonight. It’s the same as what we did last time, but you do it on both sides,” he says, demonstrating the first two rows for Dean to watch. He nods, mimics the graceful movements of Castiel’s hands -- his immediately looks messier, but it doesn’t matter. The knots form a V-shaped pattern, and despite his mistakes Dean knows it will look interesting. Without another word, they work. 

Castiel is sitting right next to him, legs crossed comfortably. His knee is about three inches from where Dean’s legs are splayed out in front of them, gently bowed -- Dean wants to push his knee closer, feel the constant warmth that Cas seems to put off. But he doesn’t, because wanting isn’t something he’s good at; instead, he works a little faster and focuses on the way his fingers curl around the threads. 

After about forty minutes, Cas speaks again. 

“Did your day get longer since we spoke this morning?” 

Dean’s hands still, and he focuses his eyes on the shadows underneath the door. He shrugs, and continues to knot. 

Castiel hums in response. “Mine as well. I’m sorry to hear that your day was also not particularly marvelous.” 

Dean looks at Castiel in the dark after that, mimes writing something with his hands. Cas nods at him and retrieves the notepad and pen from before, handing them both to his companion. Dean scribbles out a message and returns it, trying not to stare at the way the damp hair at the nape of Castiel’s neck curls up. 

_Why do you talk like you’re a million years old?_

“I received a very good education. And I feel very old, but unfortunately I’ve only been on Earth for about twenty-four years,” he responds. 

Dean feels something pang in his stomach. Castiel is only two years older than him. _We could have been in high school at the same time,_ he thinks -- wonders where they would both be now, had they known each other before. 

_Where did you go to college?_

The answer doesn’t come immediately. “Columbia.” 

Dean’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. He stares at Cas, mouth opening a little. He has a _lot_ of questions, too many to write down -- how did Cas end up here after going to _Columbia?_

Instead of waiting on him to ask, Cas appears to read his mind instead. “I was involved in... an accident when I was in my last year of college. I liked the painkillers a little too much, and here I am. One-hundred and sixty thousand dollars down the drain, and all I have to show for it are some collapsed veins and a stunning vocabulary.” 

He doesn’t meet Dean’s gaze, instead working faster on his own bracelet. He’s much closer to finishing than Dean, and by the time Dean has thought of something to say in response Castiel is tying off the threads a little more tightly than he needs to. His shoulders are stiff, expression unreadable.

“You should head back.” 

Cas still isn’t looking at Dean, and his bracelet isn’t even finished, and _fuck, now I made Cas feel like shit just ‘cause I felt like shit, fuck,_ and Dean wants to apologize. He wants to say that he’s so sorry for wrecking it before anything even started, how he’ll never bother Cas again. Except Cas silently rises from the floor before he can write anything down, and panic is starting to flood Dean’s chest. 

Scrambling to his feet, Dean opens his mouth to speak when he realizes that he has no idea what Cas is doing. Reaching into the back of his dresser, he retrieves a bulky object. Even in the darkness, Dean recognizes it; his heart starts to beat faster, and the panic is replaced with something bright, happy. 

Castiel extends the jacket to Dean, finally looks at him for just a second. “You left it here the other night. I took it off of you because you were burning up, but I forgot to return it. I’m very sorry, Dean.” 

He shakes his head aggressively, tugs the jacket close to his chest. Reaching for the notepad on the ground again, Dean writes out another message. 

_Don’t apologize, dude. Thank you._

Cas stares at the message for a long minute, and his voice is quiet in the dark when he speaks: “You aren’t angry with me?” 

Dean shakes his head again. 

_Are you crazy? I thought Bobby stole it from me when I wasn’t looking. You’re a lifesaver, Cas._

A look of relief blooms on Castiel’s face. “Good.” 

Dean’s not brave enough to ask Cas if he’s mad at him, but he takes the lack of outward anger as a good sign. Maybe he didn’t fuck it up as fast as he thought he did. 

Walking to the door, Castiel’s footsteps are silent. He opens it for Dean, and offers a tiny smile as Dean walks through. 

“Goodbye, Dean.” 

Dean waves at him before walking back down the hall, finding the glass doors again. When he tugs his jacket back on, it smells faintly of lavender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussion of prostitution, mention of child abuse, mention of drug use, mention of unspecified violence


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The less we say about it the better  
> Make it up as we go along  
> Feet on the ground  
> Head in the sky  
> It's ok I know nothing's wrong"
> 
> \--this must be the place (naive melody), talking heads

Forty-eight hours have officially passed since he got to rehab -- it feels like it’s been ten years, not two days, but time passes differently in the beige labyrinth of Hope Valley. The hours are shorter, but the days are somehow longer. How every task feels simultaneously infinite and instantaneous is beyond Dean’s comprehension, but he knows that it doesn’t feel right. He’s only been here two days, but he can barely imagine a life outside of this anymore. 

Waking up and eating breakfast in silence while Benny, Ash, and Kevin talk about politics next to him is nice. Letting Jody slip an extra biscuit onto his plate because he “looks like he’s never had a real meal in his life” is nice. Even his first round of therapy that day isn’t too bad -- Bobby asks about his family, and Dean talks about Sam the whole time. And talking about Sam is always nice, regardless of circumstance. 

At the end of their appointment, Bobby looked at Dean and said _sounds like he’s your pride and joy._ Then Dean smiled at him and wrote down _hell yes._ Because Sam was the only good thing that he’d ever contributed to the world, and he did a damn great job with that one thing. 

Dean feels so comfortable by lunchtime that he starts to wonder if Charlie is slipping him something extra with his morning meds. Yesterday he was panicking and having a full-on meltdown, but now it’s… well. 

It’s _nice_. 

This is usually the time that Dean would start panicking about feeling comfortable, but the constant work of the daily schedule helps him keep the anxiety away. It creeps up, between activities -- walking from the medical bay to breakfast, waiting outside Bobby’s door for the session to start. He can feel it, when it starts to happen: the cold seeping in, even through his jacket. 

But he tells himself to keep it together for a little longer and enjoy the niceness; hitting the two-day mark coincides with the weekend, and that means Dean can finally call Sam. And he can’t wait to hear his voice, listen to him talk about Stanford and sunny California skies.

The only problem is that Dean is going to have to talk, out loud. 

A little list had mysteriously appeared overnight in the dining room and Dean’s name was furthest down on the chart, clocking in at four in the afternoon. Kevin had then explained to him over breakfast that they were allowed family calls on the weekends, and everyone got twenty minutes. He said to Dean, _you’ll be amazed at how much my mom can talk about her Toyota Previa. I’m pretty sure she loves that minivan more than me._ And then Dean had laughed a little, and he wrote a little note about his dad’s Chevy Impala. 

But all of that happened in the morning, and now it’s almost time for group. So that gives Dean about three hours left to remember how to use his vocal cords. 

Dean can’t explain it, the not-being-able-to-talk thing. He can talk plenty. In fact, he’s pretty loud; but sometimes, the words just can’t come out. They pool in the back of his throat, or get caught in his lungs -- and when that happens, there’s nothing he can do to spit them out. It doesn’t matter how desperately he wants to speak. 

What feels worse is the shame that comes with the quiet. Shame cloaks Dean’s entire perspective of himself and the world, but this is something different. The other things he’s ashamed of are things that he chose to do; they disgust him, but at least he picked those things. The silence, however -- it’s different. An innate failure. 

The hours count down, and Dean realizes that his phone call is going to interfere with what should be his dedicated craft hour. _Fuck,_ he thinks -- he was hoping to see Cas again. And to finish the bracelet, but mostly to see Cas. Even if he won’t admit that to himself. 

Group therapy passes by him in a haze again even though Ellen is leading this time. And Ellen has a decidedly more aggressive counseling style than Bobby; she calls on people to talk, forces them to crack open and share. She’s tough, but never unkind -- Dean is pretty sure that’s why she doesn’t call on him once the entire session. It’s taking up all of his energy just to _think_ about saying _hey, Sammy,_ in a few hours; he can’t imagine wasting all of that effort on talking in a group session with a ton of people he still barely knows. 

(Well, not really. He knows about Ash’s terrible relationship with his mother and the crippling pain that Lee felt when his wife cheated on him. But he couldn’t tell you their favorite colors.) 

Dean has about fifteen minutes to kill before he can go to the crafting room for part of the art therapy session, and he plans on spending those fifteen minutes alone in his room, trying to turn the inhuman noises in his throat into full fucking words. Before he can make his way out of the room, Benny stops him with a huge hand on his shoulder. 

“Not so fast, brother,” he says, a wide smiling lighting up his face. “You alright? Lookin’ a little puny.” 

Dean swallows and wipes his wrist across his brow to remove the sweat collecting there. The closer it gets to four, the more terrified he feels -- he doesn’t want to disappoint Sam. He’s doing this _for_ Sam in the first place. Kind of, at least; he just needed to get him on a plane to escape the shittiness that is being stuck in Dean Winchester’s orbit. 

He nods his head and breaks away from Benny’s gaze. The hand disappears. 

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything. Family is tough.” 

Dean nods again and takes a step backward to try and escape. He’s losing time to practice his words, and Benny telling him that his discomfort is completely visible to the outside world just makes Dean feel even more anxious. He grips the cuff of his jacket tightly in his hand, willing his hands to stop shaking. _What the fuck is wrong with you? What happened to being a closed book, dumbass?_

Benny blesses him by taking the hint and backing off, putting up a hand in a small wave before joining Kevin and Ash at the edge of the room again. A sigh gushes out of Dean’s lungs as he turns to leave, about to make a run for the haven of room 107MA, when he hears his name. _Again._

“Winchester,” Ellen speaks from behind his left shoulder, and he lets out a guttural scream in his mind. 

He turns, raises his eyebrows. Dean has been making a very solid effort to be less of an asshole to these people, even if he doesn’t really want to be there. But he’s running out of time, and he’s not going to be able to talk to Sam, and he’s going sound all worn out and disappointed on the other end of the line and it’s going to be _his fault_ that he feels bad, even all the way out in fucking _California --_

“Thanks for being a little more engaged today,” she says. 

_Wait, huh?_

“Hard to start out when everyone else has been here awhile. You’ll warm up,” Ellen gives him a short smile, sticks her hands in the pockets of dark blue jeans, and starts to walk away. “Don’t expect to stay on the bench the whole time though. This is major league, and you’re on deck tomorrow.” 

Dean feels glued to the floor. 

_Thanks? To me? Engaged?_

He listened a little, sure -- but he just sat there. He tries to wrap his mind around her words, the casual way she had thanked him. Easy as anything, like he actually did something that obviously mattered. It makes an ache unfurl in his gut, and it hurts; the only good thing is that it pushes his anxiety out and away. 

Dean feels something like a tremble starting to crawl up his ribs, making his breath shake out of his lungs. He walks out of the room as fast as his legs will carry him and shuts the door to his room more loudly than he would like (he always hated when Sam did it when they fought -- but he can’t stop himself from slamming the door). Ellen’s comment has rendered him almost incapable of thought, and that’s going to make talking a hell of a lot harder. 

Leaning up against the door, Dean fully exhales to make the trembling feeling go away. Breathes in sharply again, tries to get familiar with sounds coming from his mouth. He swallows and clears his throat. Parts his lips, just a little. 

_Hey Sam, how’s Cali?_

_Hi Sam -- everything’s fucking peachy over here._

_Sam, hey! Everyone’s fucked up here, but not as much as me. How ‘bout you?_

Quietly, even in his mind, Dean has one last thought.

_Sam, do you know how I got you through school?_

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. 

“Hi, Sammy,” Dean whispers, voice raw. 

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


The craft room isn’t as busy as it was the day before, but Garth still welcomes everyone with the same level of enthusiasm. “Dean! You’re back, I’m so glad. Once you’re done with detox they’ll move you to the hiking groups so you’re not stuck with me all the time,” he says, and Dean stares at him for a second. Wonders how someone with this kind of personality started working with such a gnarly population of people. He wants to tell Garth that he likes being there, but he just used up all of his words in his room -- so instead, he offers a shrug and a half smile. That alone is enough to make Garth beam, though, so Dean thinks it’s an okay effort for right now. 

Cas is seated at the same place as before, this time with an array of oil pastels scattered across the table. When Dean approaches, Castiel’s eyes widen -- he hurries to gather the pastels together, making a space for Dean. Without a word, he places the friendship bracelet from last night on the table. Dean starts to work, and his mind goes blank for all of ten minutes before Castiel accidentally knocks their knees together under the table. 

“Apologies,” he says, not even bothering to raise his head from the field of flowers he’s drawing. But to Dean, it feels like a wave of electricity cascades throughout his leg. 

He swallows, torn out of his vacant mind and back into the present. Cas has such a nice voice -- deep, but not always rough. Sometimes it’s soft, like just now, or when he helped Dean get to the medical bay. And on top of having such a nice voice, Cas speaks with an ease that Dean has never possessed; it seems like he plans out every word, quick as a whip. 

In this way, Castiel feels like everything that Dean can never be. And he thinks about how it took him three hours just to work up the nerve to say two words to an empty room. And in twenty minutes, he has to talk to Sam -- and he’s not going to be able to. 

“Dean?” 

Dean is ripped out of his train of thought, and he realizes that not only is he breathing fast and shallow (and loud), he’s tied the last knot on his bracelet so tightly that the pattern has gotten all fucked up. _Shit._ He inhales sharply, tries to hold the breath in -- but he can’t, and now it feels like his hands are shaking, and he’s trying to untie the knots but it just looks worse. Dean feels tears starting to make an appearance, and he crushes his eyelids closed so Cas doesn’t have to see him have another meltdown. 

“Dean, what’s going on?” 

Cas’s voice is low, trying to keep their conversation as private as possible even in a craft room full of six other people. When Dean doesn’t look up, he lets his fingers lightly rest on the back of Dean’s tensed hand. “Do you have any paper?” 

Dean shakes his head, harshly, and feels a tear escape. _Fuck._

Without hesitating, Cas rips off the corner of his pastel piece and hands it to Dean. He grabs a pen from his scrub pocket and tucks it between Dean’s fingers. His hands feel like ice compared to Castiel’s own. 

“Tell me what’s going on in your head, Dean,” he whispers. 

Dean swallows hard and rubs a hand down his face, pausing at his eyes to wipe away some of the wetness. He scribbles something out, and it’s barely legible -- but after twenty seconds of analysis, Castiel understands.

“Oh, your phone call,” he says. Dean refuses to meet his gaze, doesn’t want to see the pity that he knows must be there. Instead, he locks his eyes on the corner of the table. 

_So fucking stupid. Can’t even think about trying to talk to your own goddamn brother for a few minutes without having a full-on meltdown_ , he thinks. He curls his left hand into a fist until he feels his fingernails digging hard into the palm of his hand. 

In the corner of his eye, Dean sees Castiel’s hand creep into his line of sight. He taps gently on the table twice, and Dean follows the trail. From his fingertip to his wrist, over the friendship bracelets, up a nicely-muscled shoulder, and finally landing at the bolt of his stubbled jaw. Dean can’t force himself to go any further, afraid of what his expression will be, but Cas still accepts the attempt.

“I could speak for you. Let you listen, you write what you want to say.” 

Dean’s eyes snap up and lock onto a deep blue gaze. Even more shocking than Castiel’s suggestion is his face -- he just looks earnest. Not a trace of pity to be found.

Dean opens his mouth for a second, unsure of how to respond to the gesture. His eyebrows draw together, and he puts a hand over his face again. _Since when did this become your life? Trying to convince some guy who’s way too nice to fucking talk to Sam for you?_

Hesitant, Castiel speaks again: “I understand if the suggestion was too much. I apologize for overstepping, I shouldn’t have assumed that you would allow me to overhear your familial discussions.” 

Dean drops his hand and sees Cas staring down at his now-obliterated field of flowers. Dean copies his earlier gesture, tapping on the table -- Castiel meets his gaze, and Dean shakes his head. The other man tips his head, and _fuck, yeah, that’s confusing, hold on --_ Dean writes out a note quickly, slides it across the table. 

_I would appreciate that._

Cas looks at him again and half of his mouth quirks up. “My Van Gogh imitation will have to wait.” 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


Castiel explained to Garth, and he let them go without another question -- all he did was wish Dean good luck and tell him that he could do anything. Dean tries not to let another kind comment incapacitate him, and instead focuses on the logistics of this plan. 

They snag a spare notebook from the craft room and a couple of backup pens because Dean is feeling a little paranoid about this. Sure, it’s better than being totally silent for twenty minutes after saying _hi, Sam,_ but he’s still nervous. This is Sam -- he doesn’t want to disappoint him. 

The phone is in a small room next to Bobby’s office, allowing for some privacy. It’s about eight feet wide and just another six feet deep -- as the two men walk inside, Dean can’t help noticing how close he’s going to have to stand to Cas. His heart beats a little faster than it already is, and he swallows. 

“Are you ready?” 

Dean nods. 

Cas punches in the number and holds the phone a few inches from his face. He gestures for Dean to come closer so that he can hear, and Dean tries not to focus on the way he can make out Cas’s eyelashes curving over his cheekbones. He closes his eyes, blocking out all other stimuli -- this is him and Sam. Just checking on Sam with a… proxy. A very handsome proxy. 

“Hello? Dean?” 

Dean’s eyes snap back open. He stares at Cas and waves a hand when he doesn’t speak, points at the receiver. Cas makes an incredulous face at him, mimes writing at him -- Dean rolls his eyes and writes out _EXPLAIN IT TO HIM._

He clears his voice. “Hello, um. This is Castiel Novak, I’m at Hope Valley with Dean. He’s still having a bit of trouble vocalizing his thoughts, so I’ll be talking for him. He’s right here, and he can hear everything you say. I’ll just tell you what he says.” 

Sam is silent on the other side of the phone. “What?” 

Dean is scrawling words out rapidly, but not fast enough to match Sam. 

“Are you a doctor, or a therapist? Who are you?” 

“I’m a… fellow patient,” Castiel finishes, looking to Dean for help. On the other end of the line, Sam sighs. 

“Dean? Can you hear me? What’s going on, I thought you were starting therapy and stuff for this?” 

Everything Dean wrote out just became irrelevant due to Sam’s question, and he scribbles over it angrily. This activity is way more frustrating than he was anticipating, and he still hasn’t gotten a chance to say any of the things he wants to say to Sam -- he’s already exhausted. 

“Give him a second, he’s writing down quite a bit,” Castiel says, and Sam huffs into the phone. Dean finally presents the paper, and Castiel reads it out. 

“Sammy, I’m fine. I’m the therapy MVP, don’t worry about it,” Cas says, and the words sound wickedly inorganic coming from his mouth. 

“He took three minutes to write _that?”_

Castiel doesn’t respond, waiting on Dean. After looking at the notepad again, he speaks: “I wouldn’t have to rewrite everything every second if you would give me a goddamn minute to say what I need to say.” 

“Fine, Dean. Take your fucking time,” he says, sounding bitter. 

First time speaking since all this started, and Dean’s fucked it up already. He shakes his head and keeps writing, trying not to let the frustration leak into his words any more. A lot of the time, Sam acts like he’s fucking fifty -- so much so that Dean forgets he’s just a teenager. 

But then, stuff like this happens. And he remembers that Sam is an impatient college kid, and Dean is taking time out of his Saturday afternoon at college in sunny California. 

“Things are smooth as gravel here. How’s Cali?” 

“It’s good. Weather’s definitely a lot nicer.” 

Dean nods, hand still on the paper. 

He’s been so worried about getting the words out that he barely thought about what the words would be. 

After another beat of making no move to respond, Cas taps his shoulder and gestures to the phone. Dean just stares at him, feeling defeated -- what is he supposed to say to Sam? About _this?_

He shakes his head and shrugs. Castiel’s eyes are concerned, and he furrows his brow. The pen and paper fall to Dean’s sides with his arms, limp; he can’t do this. His gaze drops to the floor, and he feels like crying for what feels like the thousandth time that day. 

“Sam, I believe that our time is running out. They run a tight ship around here,” he says, and Dean glances back up at Cas. “It was wonderful meeting you. Dean says goodbye, as well. He hopes you’re having a good time.” 

“Okay. Bye, Dean. Nice meeting you, too,” Sam says, voice short and strung out. 

Cas hangs up the phone. 

They stand there in silence for a minute, making no move to get further away from each other. Dean leans against the wall and holds the notepad to his face, obscuring whatever ugly expression rests on his face. 

After a second, he writes down _that was a trainwreck_ and shows it to Cas. 

Castiel pauses, considers Dean's note. “We should probably work on our execution, but I feel like it was an admirable first attempt,” he says, and it’s so absurd to compliment that disaster of a conversation that Dean laughs a little. It’s empty, but it’s a laugh. 

Cas leans against the opposite wall, and when Dean steals a glance at him he sees a look on Cas's face that he can’t define. Cas puts his hand on the doorknob and takes a breath before speaking again. His voice is soft again. 

“This does mean that we have time to go finish your bracelet. If you want.” 

Dean hugs the notepad to his chest, tries to push away the aching there. Without meeting the other man's gaze, he nods and follows him back into the hall.

When Dean's hand lingers against Castiel's as he gives the pen back, it goes unmentioned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: discussion alcoholism


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What a glorious hell we have found  
> Until I recognize the sound  
> Of my voice again  
> For years I hadn't had a clue  
> But suddenly I can look through  
> Your eyes again"
> 
> \--unforgiving girl (she's not an), car seat headrest

Dean dreams about his mom.

Usually, it happens every few months. And it’s always the same dream every time. But since he got his diagnosis and the drinking really got out of hand, he hasn’t seen her in a long time. Once Dean started hitting eight drinks by two in the afternoon, his sleep got so bad that he didn’t dream at all -- any rest that he got was in short bursts, mostly induced by blacking out. So it had been awhile since he’d seen his mom. 

But that night, he dreams about her. 

She comes to him like she always does, hair loosely tied up with a few strands framing her face and clad in a white dress. He doesn’t know if she ever actually owned a dress like this, has no distinct memory of it. But in his dreams, it’s a summery fabric that flows almost weightlessly over her body. It looks comfortable, and he’s glad that this dream version of her is wearing something comfortable. It’s a lot better than wearing the rough hospital gowns that make up his most vivid memories of his mother. 

The dream starts to play through just like it normally does. He’s sitting at the dining table, and he looks how he does now -- gaunt, tired, older. But she treats him just like when he was six years old, offering Dean a box of juice and some eggs for breakfast. She sits across from him and has a cup of coffee while he eats, watching with a gentle smile on her face. 

Dean doesn’t know if this moment ever actually happened. So many of his memories feel fogged over now, the happy moments shoved away and replaced by sterile hospital rooms. But even if it isn’t real, he soaks it up. He used to wonder if it was her ghost, hanging around and keeping him from going insane while dealing with Dad and helping with Sam. The major con of being raised by an asshole is that you usually turn out to be an asshole too, and Dean feels like he’s a horrible person about 98% of the time. But in the dreams, his mom looks at him like he’s not too bad. 

It’s the only time that he feels good about himself, really. Because Dream Mom doesn’t know that he turns tricks, and she doesn’t say anything other than _do you want more juice, honey?_ And he always does, and she always brings it to him with a warm smile and a gentle hand on the top of his head. 

But for the first time since he can remember having the dream, she doesn’t come back with another box. She disappears, and Dean waits. He waits for a long time, eventually feeling a sense of worry nag in his chest. So he stands up from the table, looking at the empty plate and crumpled juice box, then sets off into the house. 

Dean’s memory of his childhood home is fuzzy at best, and if not for the picture of his family on the wall he wouldn’t even be able to recognize this place as his own. He wanders throughout the bottom floor, peeking into rooms and calling out for his mother. 

She doesn’t respond, and Dean is confronted with the stairs to the second floor. 

His heart starts pounding in his chest as the room shifts around him, and all of a sudden he’s not in his childhood home -- he’s outside, and it’s snowing. Huge columns line the front of a massive house, the stairs transforming into marble blocks leading to a set of mahogany double doors. Dread fills his body as he turns and looks out on the snowy landscape; he’s surrounded by pure white on all sides, the snow falling heavier and the cold seeping deeper into his bones. With a shaking breath, Dean starts to walk up the stairs -- he’s just so _cold_ \-- and as he gets to the doors, a large silhouette moves behind the glass and he feels a terror unlike anything he’s ever felt before unfurling in his chest. 

The door opens, and he tries to call out for his mother as hulking arms reach for him -- but his throat is closing up, and he can’t speak. 

Dean lets out a silent scream, and then he wakes. 

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


When he walks to the medical bay before breakfast, Charlie’s normal cheeriness is significantly dimmed. She gives Dean a quick smile before offering him his little magic pill and a cup of water, morning chatter totally absent. He usually lingers in the bay for a little while and lets her talk since he’s the last person to get meds, and most of the time Charlie seems kind of lonely. She’s stuck in the medical bay pretty much all day, and Dean has barely seen her take any time off. In fact, he’s pretty confused by her entire schedule -- it feels like she spends an inordinate amount of time in the facility, but he hadn’t thought about it too much until this moment. He can’t think of anything else in the silence. 

He was banking on Charlie’s perkiness to get him out of his funk. The dream with his mom fucked him up, and all he wanted was a pleasant _hi Dean, what are your feelings about the Star Wars prequels? I thought Anakin was ridiculous._ But instead, he gets silence. 

Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, Dean rubs his fingers over the two friendship bracelets adorning his wrist. It had been almost impossible to salvage the one from yesterday, but Cas was a master of his craft. Dean tries to not think about that too much, though -- Cas is just a nice guy. Sure, he spent the rest of their art therapy session yesterday untangling strings and reading Dean's gripes about how bitchy Sam had been. But he was just a nice guy. Everyone at Hope Valley was nice, for the most part; nothing special.

If Dean let himself think anything else about Castiel's actions, he knew his heart would start to beat too fast in his chest. But even now, just barely thinking about Cas, his pulse is almost thunderous. In the silence of the med room and the absence of Charlie's bright voice, it sounds even louder. 

It's not just the quiet -- Charlie has her back turned to him, keying information into the computer. Dean swallows his pill and tosses the little cups into the trash can next to the door. He stares at the line of her back, the way she sits up totally straight with stiff shoulders. Dean frowns. 

He was hoping to get some comfort this morning. Over the past few days, Dean has slowly gotten more comfortable with other people Telling Him It’s Okay. But in the real world, that’s usually his job -- hold his mother through her pain, help his father get up after a bad night, clasp Sam’s hand in his own on the way to school. So, staring at Charlie’s rigid posture and sad eyes, Dean puts back on his Caretaker Hat and crosses the room. 

“You can go now, if your arms aren’t falling off or anything,” she says. 

Dean frowns, deeper. He taps her shoulder, and she startles. 

“Dean? What is it, what do you need?” 

He shakes his head and then points at her, raises his eyebrows. 

“What?” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean sighs. He briefly mimes writing, and Charlie hands him a little notepad from her desk. The pen she gives him is bright green, and there is a tiny Yoda head on the cap. 

_What’s up with you?_

She stares at the note for a second, then plasters on the worst fake smile that Dean has ever seen in his entire life. _Christ, this kid is the worst fucking liar,_ he thinks. And the list of liars that Dean knows includes Sam Winchester, who once tried to convince him that his first hickey was the result of a freak frisbee accident in the middle of his tenth-grade PE class. 

“I’m fine, Dean. What are you talking about?” 

He stares at her for seven seconds straight, and that’s all it takes. 

_Ah, the waterworks. Here we go,_ Dean thinks. He puts a hand on Charlie’s shoulder and she covers her face, flaming hair hanging down limply around her eyes. Dean gives her shoulder a squeeze and retrieves a box of tissues from the cabinet above the sink, placing them gently in her lap as she shudders. 

“...Dean, I’m so sorry, this is _so_ unprofessional,” Charlie mumbles, voice coming out thick and wet. Dean remains by her side silently, letting her cry it out before trying to get her to talk anymore. After a couple of minutes, a small mound of tissues has accumulated on the desk and Charlie looks composed enough to talk. 

“My professors in school would be so mad at me for acting like this,” she says, and Dean just shrugs when she looks at him with huge, sorrowful eyes. He taps his note again, holds her gaze. 

“Today is just a hard day. My parents got in a car accident a couple of years ago, and my dad died on impact but my mom was on life support for a couple of weeks. This was the day they took her off.” 

From her quivering lip, Dean fears that he’s about to lose her again to the crying. He snatches up the notepad and pen, scribbles out a quick note to stop the tears from falling. 

_My folks are gone too._

Charlie stares up at him from her little stool, and her eyebrows knit together. “Oh, I’m so sorry Dean,” she says, and she means it. She grabs his hand for a second and squeezes before returning her gaze to Tissue Mountain. “It never gets easier. Some things have, but today always hurts.” 

Dean nods, thinks about the ache in his chest that always pops up on November 2nd. 

(When someone you love goes away, the grief is overwhelming -- there’s nowhere to put everything you feel for that person. No place to throw it away, or hide it, or move it around to someone else. It gnaws at you, fighting to get out, until it eats you alive, and it feels like you’re dead too. 

But the difference is that every day, even though you’re dead, you keep waking up.) 

After a beat, Dean checks the clock. He has ten minutes left for breakfast, and he already knows Jody’s going to be pissed at him for just grabbing a slice of toast before therapy; but the dream is still reeling around in his head, and every time he remembers the snowy landscape he feels like he’s going to spew chunks. So he decides to spend four more minutes with Charlie, two minutes walking to the dining hall, three getting chewed out by Jody, and one inhaling dry toast before seeing Bobby. 

Charlie talks for a little longer, and most of it is stuff about her parents -- Dean misses part of it because he’s calculating out his next ten minutes, but he makes sure to nod along anyway so she feels like she isn’t alone. When the words start making it back into the comprehension zone of his head again, he hears Charlie say this: 

“It feels like everyone here kind of draws the short straw. Even most of the staff that I know, they’re here for a reason,” she says, eyes on the floor. She looks back up at Dean and attempts a smile. “I guess you never really know what someone’s been through, huh?” 

He lifts up one half of his mouth, shrugs. Dean tends to believe that no one can ever really know anybody else, regardless of the trauma-sharing. But sitting here, staring back at the only other orphan he’s ever encountered (outside of Sam), Dean thinks that he might be wrong. He checks the clock, then picks up the Yoda pen one last time. 

_You’re a Jedi. You’re gonna kick today’s ass._

Charlie looks at him, eyes weepy again. Something about her expression makes him remember the first time that Dean told Sam he was proud of him, after a middle school band concert. Sam had practiced for weeks on the shitty second-hand clarinet that Dean worked so hard to save up for, and he got a solo. And the solo was bad, but that was his little brother, and Dean said he did such a great job. And Sam looked at him the way Charlie looks at him now, and something in his chest twists. Hard.

Dean pats her shoulder and turns to walk out of the room before he can start to think about his own feelings.

“Thanks, Dean.” 

He waves at her over his shoulder so she can’t see the tears starting to stream down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mention of parental death, mention of prostitution


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And you must take your medicine  
> Getting better everyday  
> Good for a limited time,  
> Feelin' fine"
> 
> \-- tiny apocalypse, david byrne

It’s been a full week. It feels like it’s been years, but it’s only been a week. 

Dean has settled into the cycle of every day. Get up, pills (except Charlie told him that’s gonna stop soon), breakfast with the other young patients on the ward, morning therapy with Bobby, lunch, afternoon hike or kicking everyone’s ass at watercolor painting, group therapy, some free time in the afternoon, dinner, another activity, and then fending off his nightmares. Toss a shower in there somewhere every now and then and that’s it -- a rock-solid, airtight schedule to keep all of his horrible thoughts away. And most of the time, he’s comfortable. 

Sometimes, Dean even feels a little bit happy. Sharing meals, going for a walk in the woods, making things with his hands. He hasn’t done those things in years. For the first time since he was a kid, he does things for himself. He ended up here because of Sam, sure -- he knows that. He sees it, almost impossible not to see it. But when he finishes a little painting, or laughs at one of Benny’s jokes, he can put that aside. And he can pretend to feel like he’s here because he chose to be, and he’s choosing _all_ of these things. What to eat, how to dress, how to spend his time, what to say to Bobby or Ellen. The illusion is safe, and warm, and it makes Dean happy. 

But he still can’t talk. And it’s starting to bug the hell out of him. 

The morning of his eighth day at Hope Valley, Dean walks into Bobby’s office with one of Charlie’s Star Wars pens and a small notepad that Cas snagged for him from the art room. He already has a message written out, anger visible in the harsh curves of the letters. He rips the note out and slaps it on Bobby’s desk, not taking his seat like usual. 

_Why the fuck can’t I talk?_

Bobby glances at the note, then back up at Dean. “You tell me, son.” 

Dean rolls his eyes, turns around in exasperation. He thought therapy would be a hell of a lot harder, but it’s easy to dodge Bobby’s questions. It’s easy to twist his answers into something softer and less disgusting than his reality, and Bobby doesn’t have a single fucking clue. To his knowledge, Dean was just a kid with dead parents and a gnarly resume who liked beer a little too much. 

After a second of staring at the door, Dean turns back around and writes something else down on the notepad.

_Aren’t you supposed to be the mental health expert or something?_

At that note, Bobby laughs. “Expert’s a generous term. All I’ve got is one semester of community college and a hell of a lot of nasty experiences under my belt. If you want to talk to someone with a degree, Garth is your man.” 

Dean extends his arms to his sides, lifts his eyebrows. _Well?_

Bobby stares at him. Dean watches, in real time, as his expression changes from gruff to surly. 

“Sit down, Winchester. If I’m not good enough for you then _feel free_ to let me know, but Garth is pretty damn busy with the narcotics ward so you’re stuck with me for now.” 

Dean sits, sheepish at having offended him. He tucks his arms in close to his sides, tugging the jacket tight around his body. _God, I fucking suck._ The floor is the only place he can look. Specifically, the chipped tile next to the edge of Bobby’s small brown desk. 

“I don’t know why talking is so hard for you. But if I had to bet, it’s probably got something to do with all the things you won’t tell me about.” 

At that, Dean’s eyes snap up. It feels like all the blood in his body drains away, leaving behind a harsh chill under his skin.

Bobby holds his gaze, face softening. “You think you’re slick, son. But I’ve got news: you aren’t.” 

Dean gulps and turns his gaze back to the chipped tile. _Shit. Shit, shit shit shit shit. Fuck, I want a drink._

“You had a tough start, so we’ve been going a little easy on you. But it’s been a week, and we want to help -- so it’s time to start digging a little deeper.” 

Tucking his chin close to his chest, Dean shuts his eyes as hard as he can. _This is bad. This is really, really, really fucking bad --_

“I know it feels terrifying. But you’ve gotta let someone in. It doesn’t have to be me, it can be Ellen, or someone else on the ward. But you have to do it.” 

Suddenly full of blinding rage, Dean rips out a page from the notepad. Writes furiously, gripping the pen so hard in his hand that it hurts; the small pain is the only thing that distracts him from the hot feeling building up behind his eyes, and he won’t cry here again. So he slams the paper down on the desk instead, relishes in the pain that shoots up his wrist. 

Bobby reads the note. 

_I don’t have to do anything._

He nods, once. “I don’t know everything about you, Dean. But I do know that you’re awful familiar with doin’ things you don’t wanna do because you think you have to. And I can promise you that doing this is going to hurt a hell of a lot less.” 

All of his anger bleeds away, replaced by a fresh wave of terror. Because Bobby doesn’t know everything -- but he knows some. And all at once, Dean’s illusion of choice is gone. 

He bolts out of the room, slamming the door behind him and abandoning his pen and paper. As he makes a run for it, his instinct screams at him to go to room 122 on the other side of the building; it’s the only place that he can hide, and Dean doesn’t want to risk being seen by another living soul for the foreseeable future. 

For a second, he starts moving that way -- but then the thoughts start crashing in, and his shoes screech to a halt on the beige tiles. 

_Cas isn’t gonna want to fucking talk to you about your shit again._

Dean leans against the wall, chest heaving.

_And the guy’s probably busy getting better over there right now._

He screws his eyes shut tighter, tries to stop his shoulders from trembling. 

_Don’t drag him down back into your own fucking bullshit again. You already did it five times this week. Leave him alone._

He turns and starts heading the opposite direction. His cheeks are wet, but he tries to ignore it. 

_Leave him alone._

He thinks about how he can probably make it out of the medical bay if he distracts Charlie for long enough. 

_Leave him alone._

Dean is halfway down the ward when he hears his name. 

_Be alone._

_“Winchester!_ Hold on a second,” the voice says, and it doesn’t take long for Dean to realize that it’s Ellen. He picks up his pace. 

She mumbles _goddamnit_ and starts to walk a little faster, but Dean notices that she’s not chasing him the way that Bobby and Charlie did. He stops and turns, sees that she’s got a pad of paper and pencil in hand. 

Taking his momentary stop as a good sign, Ellen smiles. “What did that asshole say this time? Seems like he should give people pep talks at the Olympics with this kind of track record.”

She stops five feet away from Dean and extends the pen and paper. “Come sit in the Sunshine room, it’s empty. You can talk to me instead. Promise I won’t make you run laps.” 

He stares at the olive branch being extended, mulls it over. 

Ellen's voice isn't soft, or delicate. She speaks to him normally and ignores the tears on his face. Dean wonders, for a second, if she sees _him_ instead of what he's done. Wonders if anyone at all is capable of seeing him like that when he can't even look past it in the mirror every morning.

Ellen gestures with the pad and pen again. "It's this or getting chewed out by Bobby." 

Dean's posture deflates and he blinks hard, scrubbing the tears out of his eyes.

_Charlie would probably get me before I got out anyway. She said she’s been going to the gym, she’s fast._

He takes it. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


The Sunshine room doesn’t exactly live up to its name. The walls and tile seem even more beige than the rest of Hope Valley, and there isn’t a single window. As Dean follows Ellen into the room, Ellen turns on a painfully fluorescent light and pulls two chairs from the edge of the space into the center. She faces them together, but with a good six feet between them. With more grace than Dean would have expected, she sits with crossed ankles and perfect posture. 

“C’mon, now. Take a seat, Dean.” 

He still feels spooked. Dean didn’t miss Bobby’s phrasing earlier -- _we’ve_ been going easy. He knows full well that _we_ means Ellen, too; maybe even Garth, but Dean doesn’t think it’s really possible for Garth to be tough. 

So he’s still wary when he sits. 

“I’m gonna do a little bit of talking, and then you can do a little bit of writing, and then we’re gonna go on our way. Alright?” 

She faces her palms up in her lap, placating. Dean can feel the way his lips are a harsh line, familiar grooves etched into the space under his eyes and around his mouth. It’s a familiar expression, one that he wore frequently around his father and sometimes around his teachers -- but never around clients. The thing is that Ellen doesn’t fall into any of those categories, and he doesn’t know what face to put on. 

He lets the mask drop, and nods. Once it’s off, he realizes how exhausting it was to keep it on. 

“Great. Dean, let me be honest with you. I haven’t read through any of your papers, I don’t know anything about you other than the tiny bit you’ve shared in group. All I know is that I look at you, and I see a lot of my own kid,” she says, face neutral. 

Dean stares back at her and shrugs. 

“Right now is kind of… an anomaly, around here. Usually we have a lot of older folks. Having you and Kevin on the ward, it’s a breath of fresh air. I’ve heard a hell of a lot about divorce and affairs and alimony, and I don’t know why you’re here but at least it isn’t those,” Ellen confesses, a barely-there smile lighting up her face. Against his instincts, Dean smiles back at her. Just a little. 

“The thing about it, though, is that I know it’s gotta be something bad that got you here so young. And however nice it is to see someone so handsome here, I hope that I never see you back after three months.” 

The smile disappears, and Dean swallows. He feels cold sweat dripping down his back, and he grips the sleeves of his jacket. 

“But we can’t get you moving on to greener pastures without talking to one of us a little bit. You don’t have to say everything, because no one ever wants to say anything at all. But if you feel like it’s not working out with Bobby, for whatever reason, you can start over. With me. No skin off anyone’s back.” 

Dean swallows again and knits his eyebrows together, confused. 

“Some people don’t work well together one-on-one. Nothing to feel bad about. Tons of people don’t work with me ‘cause I remind them of their deadbeat sister or some bitch from high school. But some people don’t like working with Bobby too much, either.” 

She pauses for a beat, looks at Dean a long time. Her eyes aren’t scary -- she isn’t digging for why he doesn’t like talking to Bobby. He doesn’t have to tell her that he doesn’t want to talk to Bobby anymore because he looks at him and thinks about his dad being disappointed in everything that he is, sees client after disgusting client, sees people who have made him hate himself even more. He doesn’t have to say it. 

For the first time, it feels like he’s not being forced to talk at all. 

Dean releases the cuffs of his jacket and looks around the room, finds nothing to focus on except Ellen’s kind gaze. He opens his mouth for a second, wants to say something; except he doesn’t know what it is that he wants to say, and his mouth shuts just as quickly. He closes his eyes and rubs his thumb over the first bracelet he made with Cas. 

“All I’m saying, Dean, is that you have a chance to start over with this. And that’s okay. You can choose what you want to do.” 

He opens his eyes. 

He’s grateful for the notepad and pen, but he ends up not even needing it. Instead, he nods his head once and points at Ellen, avoiding her face. And he can’t see it, but he can hear the grin in her voice when she says “Alright. Let’s get started.” 

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


After meeting with Ellen, Dean walks out of the Sunshine room with a strange feeling behind his ribs. It’s a new sensation -- usually after therapy he feels empty, so the sensation of anything else at all is fucking weird. He doesn’t know what to do with it, or what to label it, so he sits in his room for a while instead of going straight to the dining hall. He’s not watching the clock, but ten minutes pass; then twenty, then thirty. And once it hits thirty-seven minutes, he hears a loud knock on the door. Dean startles from his catatonia on the bed, feels dread replace the weirdness in his chest in less than a heartbeat.

“Winchester! Special delivery,” Jody hollers from the other side of the door. 

He stands, legs shaky for some reason. He took off the jacket when he got to his room, and he itches to put it back on -- but Jody bangs against the door again and tells him that she doesn’t have all damn day, and he rushes to open it. 

Jody wears a scowl and an old black apron, and Dean gulps when he meets her eyes. 

“I know I’m the only goddamn person around here trying to keep you from starving, but Lord help me if I’m not gonna try. Here. Special dessert, too.” 

She extends a silver aluminum container, and Dean grabs it timidly. 

“If you keep skipping breakfast you’ll feel like shit for your first session. We’re having omelettes tomorrow and if I don’t see your skinny ass in the dining hall by 8:05 I’m dragging you there myself.” 

Dean stares at Jody for a second before grabbing the tray. She looks him over for one second longer, exhales. “Your color looks better. I’ve got extra if you want more later.” Then she turns on her heel and heads back to the dining hall. 

Dean’s eyes linger after her, the slight limp on her right side. The dread in his chest has disappeared, legs no longer trembling. He thinks about what Charlie told him. 

_Everyone’s here for a reason._

He looks back down at the tray in his hands, then decides to try and eat just a little bit of it. He knows that he won’t be able to hold down much, but he’ll try. After all, Jody’s food was pretty good -- and for the first time in years, someone’s making sure that he eats. 

Sitting on his bed with a deep breath, Dean opens up the tray and scans the contents. Some type of ham sandwich, a small pile of roasted vegetables, and in the corner -- 

Dean’s throat goes dry. 

It’s a piece of apple pie. 

His eyes lock onto the small slice. The crust is craggly and uneven, the center a dark cinnamon color; homemade. 

Dean’s eyes start to water, and he doesn’t know how to hold back the tears. Because this is the first time he’s seen a slice of homemade pie since his mom died. And he doesn’t know why, but this baked good is making him want to sob. 

His lip quivers, and he grips the side of the tray hard with his fingers. After a few seconds, he grabs the plastic fork from inside the tray and psychs himself up to take a single bite. 

It’s good. It’s not his mom’s, but it’s really good. And for the first time since he got to Hope Valley -- really, the first time in years -- Dean finishes an entire meal. 

After he eats the last crumb from the tray, he stands up to toss it in the garbage can next to his dresser, a few feet away from the door. Moving closer, Dean notices a small piece of paper on the floor. Neatly folded, with a messy script on the front. He tosses the tray and grabs it delicately. 

_To: Dean_

_From: Cas(tiel)_

Before he can stop himself, a grin splits over Dean’s face. He opens the note, and the grin gets bigger. 

_Hello Dean,_

_The craft room has been exceptionally boring over the past few days. If you feel like working on another project, I can teach you another pattern. Just stop by if you want. I’ll be awake._

_-Cas_

Underneath the short note is a little drawing of a diamondback pattern. Next to the pattern is a messy sentence that’s been scribbled out, replaced by a picture of a bee. 

Dean folds up the note and tucks it in the pocket of his scrubs. He feels warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: mentions of prostitution, discussion of alcoholism


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I stayed in a lake of fire  
> My bed was an ancient pyre  
> The stars all fell into the sea  
> I can't see the light for the trees"
> 
> \--see the light, sparklehorse

It’s 8:00PM when Dean sneaks out of his room and back to the dining hall. Dinner’s been over for an hour, but he knows Jody’s still going to be there prepping for tomorrow’s meals. Still, he’s a little surprised to find her scrambling what looks to be three dozen eggs in a massive bowl. 

When she sees his surprised expression, she puts a hand on her hip. “What, did you think I was gonna make an omelette just for you? I’ve got almost twenty people on this ward to feed.” 

Dean shrugs with one shoulder and extends his pre-written note, ignoring the way that Jody seems to whisk the egg mixture more angrily due to his presence in her kitchen. Dean doesn’t know a whole lot about Jody, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that this place is her territory and any unexpected visitors felt more like an invasion of privacy. 

“What do you need, anyway? Isn’t it time for y’all to be doing some kind of good thing, bad thing exercise about today?” 

Dean pushes the note at her more insistently, and she finally looks up. With a heavy sigh, she puts down her massive whisk and takes it from him. 

“Two slices? You liked it that much?” She looks at Dean with a note of surprise in her voice. There’s some stray flour in her short hair.

Dean nods once and offers a little smile. 

Jody breaks his gaze and examines the note again before tucking it away in the pocket of her apron. She tries to hide it, but Dean catches her -- a break in the tough veil. For just a second, Jody smiles big and bright. She turns her back to Dean and walks to the back of the kitchen before returning with two small aluminum dishes and her usual toughened expression. 

Wordlessly, she hands him the containers. Dean smiles at her in thanks before turning to exit her kingdom. “I’ll make it again in a few weeks,” she calls after him, and Dean’s smile doesn’t fade. 

As he walks back to his room, there’s a pep in his step that he hasn’t felt in a long time. In just a few hours, he’s going to get to see Cas -- not only that, but he’s going to get to have a slice of pie with him. Really good pie, too. And Cas is going to talk to him with his nice voice, and make stupid jokes that make Dean laugh, and then he’ll laugh at Dean’s even stupider jokes even though it takes about a minute for him to write them down, which ruins the delivery a little bit. Then they’re going to sit down and make bracelets together, and maybe Cas will sit really close next to him while they do it, maybe even show Dean how to do it with his pretty hands, fingers touching -- 

Blissfully unaware of his own emotions, he places the pie tins on his dresser next to Cas’s two little notes, the only decor in his room. He plops on his bed with a little bounce, leaning back into the sheets and relishing in the way he doesn’t feel as stressed right now. Sure, he’s got therapy tomorrow and for dozens of days after that, but for now he’s just got to look forward to being with Cas in a few hours. Dean’s heart is racing just thinking about seeing his new friend. 

But after a second, staring at the two pie tins, he realizes that it’s not just his heart beating fast. He feels a warmth spreading in his body, a familiar nervous energy crawling up his spine. 

_Hm_. 

But then, the worst of all: butterflies. Tons of them, fluttering all around in his stomach.

_ Oh, God. Oh, fuck -- oh no.  _

Dean slaps a hand over his face and groans. _Fuck. Don’t ruin it with a crush. Goddamnit, fuck me, he thinks._

The thing is that Dean has never had very many friends. So he figured that the fondness he had for Cas was just that: friendly. Friendly fondness. 

Sure, he thought about the guy’s eyes and mouth a lot, but who wouldn’t? He looked like he got ripped out of a Baroque painting, it was hard to ignore. And he was pretty funny too, so it made sense that Dean replayed Cas’s dry jokes in his head and smiled every now and then. 

(And everyone has a steamy dream about a friend once in a blue moon, so Dean didn’t think much of that either. He woke up, soaked in his humiliation, and then shoved the event into the back of his brain where all of his other shameful thoughts took up residence.) 

Dean keeps his hand over his eyes and lets out a pained sound from the back of his throat. It’s the first real sound that he’s made in days, and he’s almost startled by it -- he forgets that he can be anything other than silent, sometimes. Especially now that he can count the number of times he’s found himself able to speak in the last few months on one hand. Still, it’s not a word; just a sound. An awfully pained sound. 

When Dean finds himself finally able to take his hand away from his eyes, he stares blankly at the ceiling and tries not to think about the problem. He knows that he can shove this feeling away and make sure that it doesn’t turn into a problem. He knows that he can stop it before it even starts. 

However, Dean is alone in his room. No one is present to examine his thoughts, and a terrible question rises to the front of his mind like a tidal wave. 

_What if_? 

The wave carries him into an ocean of thoughts that he knows he should ignore, but the tide is strong and Dean is weak. 

Helpless, he is swept to sea.

Dean thinks about all the different ways that a hand can be held, specifically his own. The intimate interlacing of fingers, the soft tracing of fingertips over rough knuckles. He keeps staring at the ceiling, determined to keep his eyes open and not let his mind wander too far away. 

He looks at the crack in the corner of his room, refuses to picture what it would be like to have Cas walk up behind him and put a gentle hand on the curve of his lower back. Dean already knows that Cas puts off heat like a bonfire, can make the assumption that his hand would feel warm through the fabric of his shirt. Or without the shirt -- and _oh_ , isn’t that a thought? 

Dean shuts his eyes. 

Before he can stop himself, he pictures Cas’s face just a few inches away from his own. Blue eyes right there, dark lashes fanning out over his cheeks. Dean wonders what it would be like to feel the press of his mouth up against the bolt of Cas’s jaw, or discover how soft his hair is. It always looks soft, despite the messiness. And it’s so messy that Dean thinks it wouldn’t really matter if he raked his hands through it, so he could do that a lot. If Cas was okay with it. 

His eyes shoot open, and the uneasy heat under Dean’s skin dissipates. A deep ache cracks his chest open and in rushes freezing cold air that makes Dean start to tremble. With tears welling up behind his eyes, he realizes that it wouldn’t matter even if Cas felt the same way. On the off chance that anyone in their right mind would ever want something like that -- something soft -- with Dean Winchester. It doesn’t matter.

_ I’m sick.  _

__

_ I’m gonna be sick for the rest of my life.  _

__

_I’m never gonna have that with anyone. Let alone Cas_. 

Dean stares at the crack in the corner of the ceiling and doesn’t wipe away the searing hot tears that drip down his face. He knows that if he tries to brush them away he’s going to see the bracelets, and it’s just going to make things worse. 

Dean curls up on his side, knees tucked close to his chest. The tears are falling faster now, but he ignores it and wraps the sheets around his body as tightly as he can. He makes himself small and tries not to think about the illness hiding under the surface of his skin. Invisible, insidious. 

_Your fault that you’re a dead man walking._

His eyelids fall shut, and Dean shudders through the sobs. After a while, he falls into a fitful sleep. The pies remain untouched until he throws them away in the morning without a second thought. 

***

On Dean’s schedule, he’s assigned to the craft room that afternoon. He thinks fuck in his head as he walks to his therapy session with Ellen, and he’s distracted throughout all of her simple questions. She wants him to talk about his “big thing” -- whatever makes him want to drink the most. She says he doesn’t have to be specific, tells him he can write down one singular word if he wants. But Dean doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive the wave of shame that would drown him if he wrote down _HIV_ , so he picks something else. 

He thinks for a second before scribbling down _dad killed himself when i was a kid_. It’s more detail than Ellen asked for, and he thinks she’ll be pleased. Plus, there’s the added bonus of it being semi-true. It’s one of the things that makes Dean drink -- it just might not be in the top five anymore. 

(The top five look more like this: 

  1. HIV
  2. Failing Sam
  3. Being alone for the rest of time
  4. The cold
  5. The rest of time being not very long at all.)



Ellen stares at the note with a neutral expression. “Alright. What about it makes you want to drink?” 

Dean shrugs. She gives him a long look. 

“Y’know, most people aren’t that cavalier about their main thing.” 

Dean shrugs again, and writes another note. _I’m not like most people_. 

At that, Ellen chuckles a little. “That much I can tell. Even if you’re lying about it right now, we can talk about that since you’re more willing to talk about it. And it’s hard when a parent dies, even if it isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to you somehow.” 

He swallows and looks away from her. Suddenly, he wishes he _had_ written down HIV. Because regardless of how he got it, it sucked. He wouldn’t need to elaborate on that. HIV just sucked. And yeah, your dad killing himself also definitely sucked. But there was a little bit more to unpack, since your dad killing himself was different than _your dad died_. So now there was explaining to do. Something that Dean is exceptionally bad at. 

He shrugs. 

Ellen sighs and sets her jaw. “How about this. I’ll ask you some starting questions. You wanna elaborate, you elaborate. If not, no worries. But you gotta answer me a little. Okay?” 

That seems easier, so Dean nods. _Be less of a fucking asshole_ , he thinks. 

“Okay. Were you and your father close?” 

Already, he doesn’t know what to say. Because he doesn’t know what counts as close, really -- did he take care of his father for years after his mother died, bathing him and feeding him through each drunken stupor? Did he listen to his father sob about his horrible thoughts and even darker memories? Did he wait every night, for hours, for him to return? Did his father know nothing about him? Was that close? 

Weren’t they close every time that John’s knuckles collided with his body? 

Dean swallows again. He tilts his head and tries to make a face that conveys over a decade of pain and obligation and longing. 

“Seems complicated.” 

Dean nods without hesitation. 

“Want to talk about the good parts first? Or the bad parts?” 

For a second, Dean considers the question. _Are those any fucking different_? 

He writes down an answer and shows it to Ellen. 

She smiles and nods. “Okay. Tell me about it.” 

***

It’s the first time that Dean cries during a therapy session and doesn’t run away. Instead, he deals with it. Ellen gives him a tissue, and he cries until it’s over. Then they keep going. 

The process is exhausting, and the tears happen twice. But he gets through it each time, and Ellen rewards him by telling him that he can have lunch in his bedroom to decompress instead of staying in the dining hall the entire time. 

“I’ll bring you a tray,” are her last words to him, and then Dean wobbles down the hallway to his room and flops on his bed. For the first time in a long time, he takes off his jacket and drapes it over the top of his dresser. Out of sight. 

He eats less than half of the sandwich that Ellen brings him, but it’s something. Charlie told him this morning that he could stop taking the meds; that the nausea would fade away along with the fuzziness at the edge of his vision. But after an hour of explaining about fifty percent of the scars on his body, Dean didn’t feel much like eating. 

He doesn’t want to do anything at all except talk to Sam or have three beers. And those are two things that are solidly not options. 

_Fuck_. 

The third item on his list of preferred things to do when confronted with emotions is making friendship bracelets. At Hope Valley, it has quickly skyrocketed to first place; except now, he can’t do that. Thinking about Cas and the intricate web of painful thoughts that now stem from him makes Dean feel so sick to his stomach that he clutches the sheets tight to his chest. He grits his eyes closed, determined not to think about him again. 

But the feel of the threads on his wrist is almost as soft as Cas’s fingers glancing over his skin, and the ache in Dean’s chest grows deeper. 

Time passes faster than he would like, and before he knows it there’s a flurry of movement outside of his door -- all the men on the ward moving to their respective activities, either shuffling slowly to enjoy the sunny afternoon or crafting more DIY stress balls. 

(Dean had popped his three days ago at lunch. Kevin saw him do it. He didn’t say anything.) 

In his mind, Dean tries to remember Charlie. _Be a Jedi. Be a Jedi. Be a fucking Jedi._ The thing is that he knows he can’t just _stop_ talking to Cas -- because, firstly, that would eliminate 25% of his friends on the unit. Secondly, abandoning your friend after you realize you have a devastating affection for them without any warning or explanation is shitty. Thirdly, it isn’t Cas’s fault. And Dean’s an asshole most of the time, but he doesn’t want to be bad to Cas. He doesn’t know the details, really -- but it seems like Cas has already been through enough bad stuff. 

So Dean rips himself out of bed and heads to the craft room. 

He tries to brace himself for seeing the outline of Cas’s shoulders in pretty blue scrubs, but he’s distracted by the head of fiery hair sitting at a small table in the back of the room. _Fuck. I wanted to think about her, not manifest her._

“Dean!” 

Charlie calls his name out when she sees him, gesturing to sit across from him. Dean glances over his shoulder and still can’t pinpoint the shoulders he’s looking for in the sea of green and blue scrubs, so he walks to Charlie with a small wave. She’s grinning ear to ear. 

“Hey! Not a lot of meds to give out today, so I’m taking a _break_ in here,” she explains, winking on the word break. Dean doesn’t really understand why, but he also knows that Charlie’s a dork, so he doesn’t think about it too hard. 

“Want to paint with me?” 

Dean nods as he takes a seat, snagging a piece of paper from the table and one of Charlie’s brushes already in the cup of water between them. It looks like she’s painting large lizards. Dean points at them and then gives her a thumbs up. 

Putting a hand over her heart, Charlie thanks him. “They’re my dogs.” 

Dean stifles a smile and starts working on his giant robot space monster again. “What was that face? You don’t think they look like dogs?” 

Dean shakes his head and gestures at them again, but looking at the very lizard-y characteristics of the dogs makes him start to laugh a little. Charlie feigns offense and gasps, staring at her painting then looking back at Dean. “Look, Frodo is a rescue! He lost his ears in dog fights! In the _streets_ , Dean! He’s a valiant champion, and he deserves respect,” she says, and although the tragedy of Frodo the Earless Dog tugs at his heart, the way Charlie says it almost sends him into hysterics. 

After Charlie complains about how Dean can’t understand high art for a few more minutes, they start to paint in silence. The room is significantly more crowded than it’s been in the past, and Dean feels like the beauty of Bobby’s scheduling may have saved him from the pain of having to see Cas today. 

Until Charlie nudges him with her paintbrush. 

“Hey. Mr. Dreamy over there keeps looking at you.” 

Dean steals a glance, and for just a second he locks eyes with bright blue. But then Cas is looking away, cheeks darkening just a little, and Dean feels like his heart is going a mile a minute. 

“You know him?” 

Dean swallows once, and nods. “Go over and say hi! Or invite him over here, I’m about to leave anyway. Got some labs to run,” Charlie says, unaware of the gravity that action would hold. Dean stares at her, desperately wishing for her to stay -- he doesn’t know what he’ll say to Cas. And he definitely can’t go over there, because right now it looks like he blew Cas off last night, and he doesn’t know how to even begin to apologize. _Oh, hey, sorry, I got myself into a crushing pit of sorrow last night because I realized I have a crush on you. Want to paint robots with me?_

But then Charlie is gone, except she’s not _gone_ -gone -- she’s still in the room, but she’s walking to the other side. Where Cas is sitting. And in this moment, Dean wants nothing more than for a soft yell to come out of his throat, to call her back before she gets too far -- but his throat shrinks around the words, and he’s left staring helplessly as two of his friends meet each other in the worst way possible. 

He tucks his head down and keeps painting the background asteroids of his picture, and he listens to the door shut as Charlie walks back to the medical bay. After a minute, a softer set of steps comes up next to him. 

“Hello, Dean. Would you mind if I sit here?” 

He wants to say _please sit with me_ , but that’s a terrifying want. So he shoves it away and nods instead. 

Cas starts drawing across from him silently. He’s just got a ballpoint pen on a piece of paper that looks rough, heavily textured -- the end result is a scraggly line. It’s one of many, many scraggly lines -- and after Dean stares at the image upside down for a few minutes, he realizes that it’s something like a portrait. 

Without lifting his eyes, Cas speaks. “I wanted to apologize for my note last night. It was rude of me to assume that you would want to spend more time working on something so silly.” 

Dean’s neck snaps up so fast he’s surprised it doesn’t break. He shakes his head, but Cas isn’t looking at him -- he’s glued to the paper, hand scribbling faster over long hair. Dean rips off the foot of his monster and turns it over, writing on the back with a spare pen on the table: _no, don’t apologize. I had a rough night, that’s all. :/_

He slides the note across the table, and Cas’s eyebrows pull together in a pretty expression of concern before he looks at Dean for the first time. “What happened?” 

_Fuck. Lie. Lie. A good lie. Not a lie about Dad. Worked on Ellen, won’t work here._

He shrugs, scrambling internally for something to write down. In the end, Cas saves him like always. “Was it something about Sam?” 

Dean hides his relief and just nods, hangs his head over the paper so that the other man can’t see the “I’m A Bad Liar But Only Around You” printed on his forehead. 

Cas lets out a soft breath and extends a hand across the table. Not touching, just barely in his line of sight -- but there. Lovely fingers, bracelets circling strong wrists. Dean wants to grab it, but that’s another terrifying want. He places it with the others and instead follows the line of Cas’s hand back up to his eyes. 

“I’m sorry that things were… difficult, with Sam last time. If you would like help trying to talk again this weekend, I would be happy to do it,” he says, voice dripping with sincerity. 

Bitterly, Dean thinks _fuck. Why does he fucking look like that and act like that? That shouldn’t be goddamn allowed._

After he shakes out of his fondness for a second, Dean thinks about the actual words that just came out of Cas’s mouth. And yeah, he would like the help. It means standing six inches away from Cas again, this time with the full knowledge that Dean would give anything to kiss him. 

He can handle a little close contact with a handsome guy. He’s gotten through closer encounters with much uglier individuals. 

Dean nods, and something close to relief crosses Cas’s eyes. “Just let me know. I understand that siblings are hard, sometimes.” 

Dean takes the opportunity to talk about anything other than his (semi) fake problems with Sam, writing down a note as fast as he can and offering it to Cas again. He tilts his head when he reads it. 

“I have two siblings. An older brother and sister. Michael is ten years older so we’re not very attached. Anna is only four years older so we’re quite close.” 

Dean nods, continuing to shred small pieces of his messy robot painting to talk to Cas. 

_ You like being the little brother?  _

Cas chuckles at that and shakes his head. “I was in foster care for a few years before being adopted by Michael and Anna’s biological parents. I’m told I was actually the eldest child of a trio, but I guess all of those traits disappeared once I got into their home. Although it was nice getting to be a brat sometimes,” he says, thoughtful. 

Dean keeps writing. 

_ What do your siblings do?  _

“Michael is in advertising and has no soul. Anna is a civil rights lawyer.” 

Dean whistles, and the sound makes Cas look at him strangely for a second. 

_ High achievers.  _

Nodding softly, Cas smiles. “They’ve accomplished much more than I could ever hope for,” he says, voice soft. “Getting my way all the time certainly lent itself to some negative behaviors in adulthood.” Cas keeps drawing, hand moving faster and pen scratching loudly on the paper. 

Dean frowns. 

_ That’s not all you are.  _

Cas looks at the note before meeting Dean’s gaze. His eyes are sad, but there’s a resigned smile on his face. “Not to be crass, Dean, but once you overdose for a third time it’s hard to imagine a world where you’re deserving of recovery.” 

Dean stares at him, gazes locked. They look at each for an uncomfortable length of time, but Dean doesn’t feel like it’s safe to look away. Because Cas is sitting here, being a wonderful artist and kind person and good friend, and he doesn’t think he’s worth saving. After a second longer, Cas looks down to keep drawing and Dean is left tracing his eyes over the hunch of his shoulders.

There are hundreds of different things he wants to say to Cas, but after two minutes he settles on the first thing that comes into his head. 

_Not to be crass, but fuck that_. 

After reading the note, Cas smiles. A real one, this time. 

“Thank you, Dean.” 

He looks up at Dean again, just for a second. Then the blue eyes are gone. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the session, but the silence is pleasant and interrupted only by the scratch of Cas’s pen. Two minutes before their next activity, Dean steals a final glance at his paper and sees a portrait of a young woman looking over her shoulder, huge wings circling her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: mention of suicide, discussion of child abuse, discussion of HIV, discussion of substance abuse


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "With me, in my mind  
> Try to keep yourself awake  
> This life ain't like it was  
> I wanna touch a human being  
> I want to go back to sleep"
> 
> \--sound & color, alabama shakes
> 
> **major tw for this chapter. check end notes.

Four weeks pass, and every day is the same. Breakfast. Talk with Jody. Therapy with Ellen. Lunch with Benny and Kevin. Hiking, or crafting. Group, mixed with the narcotics ward. Free time. Dinner. Group again, but just the alcoholics this time. Little free time before bed. Sneak off to see Cas, ignore how blue his eyes are, and work on bracelets. Get back to bed in the nick of time every night, curl up in the sheets. 

Nightmares. Wake up again. 

Dean has always been a bad sleeper, even when he was a little kid. But ever since he lost the booze, it’s gotten worse. And now that Ellen is showing him how to talk -- like  _ actually  _ talk, about things that happened to him -- it’s gotten worse. 

So far, he’s only talked about John. And Mom, a little -- before she was sick. But after twenty-eight straight days of just writing about his father, Dean is starting to run out of material. He knows, and Ellen knows. Every session, she asks him if he wants to talk about something else. 

“You can talk about what your actual motivator is, you know. You’ve been here a month, you know I won’t bite unless you force me.” 

But he always says no. And with over a decade of bad dad stories, he can always dig up something else to bring to the surface for their sixty-minute sessions. 

His dreams, though. They’re picking up the slack. 

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


_ It’s December. Dad’s been gone for months, but Dean still waits up every night when he isn’t working. Except “working” is a generous term -- he hasn’t found anyone to take him to bed in the last three weeks.  _

_ Sam is gonna need new clothes again soon, and Dean has been trying to make it work with just the money from his day job at the grocery store. But the longer he works there, the less time he has for school, and now his grades are shit and he’s on probation, and that’s cutting into his night job hours because he’s trying to not get kicked out -- but at this point, it doesn’t even seem fucking worth it. He’s learned more working for himself and keeping his kid brother alive the past few years than anything from Mrs. Armstrong’s algebra classes.  _

_ Dean stops showing up, and he knows that means they’re gonna start calling his dad. But maybe that would be the thing that brings him back, finally -- sure, he’d be coming back to beat Dean’s ass into the ground for dropping out. But at least he would be back, and Dean wouldn’t be the only one trying to keep the heat and water on.  _

_ Except two weeks pass after he goes full-time at the grocer, and he doesn’t hear anything. He can deal with the humiliation of kids from school making fun of him as he rings up their stuff, and thinks naively that maybe the teasing will stop if he lets them have their beer with their shitty fake IDs. He can deal with his coworkers being exclusively fifty-somethings who chainsmoke and offer him horrible life advice. He can deal with seeing former clients every now and then, doesn’t say anything when they look at him with terrified eyes as their wives shop in the next aisle. Dean can deal.  _

_ But the radio silence. That’s hard to deal with. And he thought doubling his hours would make it a hell of a lot easier to get through each month, but it turns out that’s not the case; it's just one more thing he’s gonna have to learn to deal with. The extra income is barely enough to cover the bills, so he starts stealing from the back so Sam eats something that isn’t Kraft every now and then.  _

_ He gets sloppy, though. And one of the fifty-somethings sees him shove a couple of shitty Red Delicious apples in his coat pockets, and the next day Dean realizes that his name isn’t on the roster anymore.  _

_ His boss told him “I don’t make the mistake of keeping thieves around. You’re in a tough spot, kid, but you can’t get through life the underhanded way.”  _

_ Dean told him to fuck off. He walks home, but not before grabbing an entire bag of apples and sprinting out of the store. He slips on the ice and bruises the fruit, but he doesn’t care. When he gets home and splits one with Sam, it feels like the best thing he’s ever eaten.  _

_ Two days pass, and Dean tries to figure out what to do. The town is just small enough that he knows word will get around about why he had to leave Crowley’s Grocery and Deli, so that nixes a lot of his other work options. Christmas is coming up in a week, and he knows the holiday is kind of fake but he still tries to make it nice for Sam. He starts trying to work out the viability of making the drive to Topeka every day to reach different clientele when he hears a knock at the door.  _

_ “Mr. Winchester?”  _

_ It’s a cop. Dean starts to sweat, and thinks about the last stolen apple sitting on the kitchen counter. “Yes?”  _

_ “Sir, I have some news to share with you,” he says, crossing the threshold and closing the door against the frigid air outside. “You might want to sit down.”  _

_ Dean doesn’t comply. “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”  _

_ The cop takes off his hat and holds it delicately in his hands. He’s an older man, with graying streaks in his hair and beard. “Sit down, son.” _

_ “Not until you tell me what this is about.”  _

_ “It’s about your dad.”  _

_ Dean sits on the shitty recliner near the front door. All the blood drains out of his face.  _

_ “Your father has passed away. His body was found in the woods about thirty minutes from here by some hunters two days ago. I’m sorry for your loss.”  _

_ Dean stares at him.  _

_ “What?”  _

_ “I’m so sorry.”  _

_ “Who killed him? I don’t understand, what happened?”  _

_ Dean’s hands are starting to shake, and he feels his throat closing up as hot tears build behind his eyes.  _

_ “His body had been out there for awhile, but it appeared to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound,” the cop says, looking away and gripping the hat tighter.  _

_ Dean stops breathing. He closes his eyes as tightly as he can. All this time, the bastard had just been thirty minutes away. _

_ After a second, he thinks: what am I going to tell Sam? _

_ “You can come to the station to gather the remains and his belongings. If you’d like, I can drive you there and back.”  _

_ At that, Dean looks up. “Remains?”  _

_ The cop gets a queasy look on his face. “Yes. You and your family can make the decision of how you want to...handle, that.”  _

_ “Handle it?” _

_ “Burial. Or cremation.”  _

_ Dean is seventeen years old, and he’s going to have to burn his father’s body.  _

_ “I’ll drive there. Don’t worry about it.”  _

_ “Are you sure?”  _

_ Dean looks up and locks eyes with the cop. “I can take care of myself.” His voice is harsh and the words bite.  _

_ “I know that, kid, but right now, I can help you--”  _

_ Bristling, Dean snaps. “I didn’t fucking ask for your help. Get out of my house.”  _

_ The cop sets his mouth into a hard line and nods. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He leaves.  _

_ Once the door shuts, Dean sinks onto the floor from his seat and cradles his head in his hands. He screams, once, loud. Muffled into the palms of his hands, the sound comes out warped and gutted. He screams until all the air in his lungs is gone and his chest hurts, and then he feels the anguish crawl deep into his bones. He rocks on the floor, curls over his knees and doesn’t fight the tears for once.  _

_ He doesn’t cry much. Crying in the Winchester house got you slapped upside the head at best. But now, for the first time, Dean knows he is safe in that regard. So he lets himself sob over the one who despised it most.  _

_ He cries not only for his father, but for Sam. He cries for his dead mother, too. For a brief moment, Dean even allows tears for himself. Because he knows, now, that this will be his life. Caring for Sam, alone.  _

_ His body was part of his mother’s, and for a few years it was truly his. But then he became a punching bag for his father, an item to sell on the street, and Sam’s unknowing saving grace.  _

_ Dean sobs at two lives and bodies lost, and then he stops. He gets up, scrubs the wetness from his face with a rag from the kitchen, and gets the keys to his father’s car. With a steeled expression and red eyes, he goes to the police station. He does not cry again.  _

  
  
  
  
  


_ *** _

  
  
  
  


_ He drives to Topeka. He tells Sam to find a friend to ride to school with, and Sam bitches about it for days.  _

_ “I like riding with you, though! Ruby thinks the car is cool, and how else am I going to get a girl to look at me twice when my skin is so bad I look like a burn victim?”  _

_ “Stop being a little bitch. I’ve gotta take the car to try and find work somewhere else. Would you rather get a handy from some chick in your history class or have a roof over your head?”  _

_ Sam raises his eyebrows.  _

_ “Fuck off. One of your nerd friends can take you. I’ll see you later.”  _

_ “Fine. Any word from Dad?”  _

_ Pausing, Dean doesn’t lie. “No.”  _

_ “Okay. When are you gonna be back?” _

_ “Probably late. Make dinner without me, and in bed by midnight. Got it?” _

_ “Got it. Later, jerk.”  _

_ The drive isn’t too bad, but Dean still hates it. Hates that he’s going to have to spend the entire day pitching his shitty resume to shitty stores, and then he’s gonna have to follow it up by scouting out where all the whores go at night. He hates that he’s going to have to waste a ton of gas money just on the trip there and back, and he wonders if he’ll be able to charge more here since it’s a bigger city to cover the difference.  _

_ He slings his papers at every minimum-wage joint that he can find, but as soon as he tells people that he’s from Lawrence their eyes glaze over and he knows he’s out of the pool. Hours pass, night falls, and his stomach growls with hunger. But that’s just something that’s going to have to wait, so he ignores it and continues to drive slowly around each block.  _

_ After two hours, he comes across a series of blocks that looks exactly like Lawrence. Shitty, falling-apart buildings, a few dive bars, and a few women hanging outside a little too long in skirts that are just a little too short.  _

_ Dean cruises around the neighboring alleys, tries to determine the exact seediness level of this place. Despite the nature of his profession, Dean tries his best to stay safe. Early on, he’d fucked up a couple of times -- guys who were too rough, too possessive, too violent. He wasn’t going to do that again, though. Sam needed him. And Sam needed him to do this, even if he didn’t realize that this is what paid the bills and put clothes on his back.  _

_ (Second-hand clothes. But still clothes.)  _

_ Eventually, Dean finds a free lot to park his car that’s just a few blocks down from the first alley that looks viable. He leaves the car, pockets his keys, and braces himself against the cold night air. It’s not snowing, but it looks like it might start coming down soon and Dean doesn’t want to get stuck here overnight.  _

_ He formulates a plan: one guy. Just one guy, short and sweet, enough money to get him dinner and gas for the drive back. Then he’ll head home and do it all over again the next day.  _

_ Dean hovers on a couple of different corners, wishing he’d worn something less hire-me-at-Walmart and a little more fuck-me-for-cash. After twenty minutes, he decides to take the approach of the girls one street over and he loses the jacket. After twenty more, with just one car having stopped next to him before speeding away, he loses his flannel, too. He ties it around his waist and tries to ignore the way the freezing air bites into his skin.  _

_ After another fifteen excruciating minutes, a black BMW pulls up next to him. The window rolls down, and Dean saunters to the side.  _

_ “What can I help you with?” Dean lets the words drip from his mouth like honey, offering a wink and a smirk.  _

_ Inside is a man who doesn’t look to be much older than Dean. In his thirties, but definitely not forty. This isn’t his usual clientele -- typically he gets closeted older men, forty-five at the youngest. Anyone younger usually sets off his alarm bells, and people in really nice cars almost always set them off too.  _

_ But this is a new city, and Dean doesn’t have any gas money. So he already knows that he’s going to have to say yes regardless of what his sixth sense is telling him about this man in this car.  _

_ “Spend the night? I’ll give you a thousand.”  _

_ Dean can’t help the way his eyes get a little wide. He had never heard of numbers that high for a night just working the streets -- maybe escorting, sure, but this wasn’t that. This was dirty work, and the most Dean had ever made in a night before was seven hundred and forty-two dollars, over a year ago. He and Sam ate like kings that week.  _

_ This was way more than that. Just for one guy.  _

_ “What are you waiting for? Don’t believe me?”  _

_ The guy grins at him with too much teeth before removing a wallet from his suit jacket. He takes out five hundred-dollar bills and extends them to Dean. “Down payment.”  _

_ Dean grabs the bills and inspects them before pocketing the cash in his jeans. It’s freezing, and he wants to get out of the cold. Locking eyes with the man, he sets his jaw. “Where?”  _

_ “My house.”  _

_ Dean shakes his head. “I don’t roll like that. Motel, my choice.”  _

_ The man raises an eyebrow and scoffs. “You really think you’re gonna tell me what to do? You’d owe three times what I just gave you if I called the cops up right now.”  _

_ Dread starts to fill Dean’s chest. He knows that he could take the five hundred and run right now, get out of the area before any pigs show up. But that would mean he’s already got one enemy out here, and the place might be crawling with cops the next time he gets back, and then he’s going to be royally screwed.  _

_ He ponders giving the money back and taking his chances for another two hours.  _

_ But it’s cold, and his teeth are almost chattering. And one thousand dollars could buy a nice Christmas present for Sam. So Dean gets in the car.  _

  
  
  
  


_ *** _

  
  
  


_ They drive mostly in silence, twenty minutes out of the city. Dean watches snow start to drift down in the winter sky, and everything in Dean’s body is telling him that this was a mistake. But it’s too late now, and he hopes that he’s just being paranoid.  _

_ Halfway through the drive, the man takes one heavy hand off the stick shift and settles it firmly on Dean’s knee, gripping tight through his jeans. Dean hates it, but he pretends to preen under the attention. He doesn’t object as the hand moves higher even though his skin is crawling.  _

_ In his mind, he returns to the usual litany that allows him to get through these things: it’s just a job, it’s just a job, it’s just a job.  _

_ As they reach their destination in the middle of nowhere, Dean sees less of a house and more of a mansion. A massive staircase leading up to a huge porch, four massive columns holding up the enormous building. As the snow falls, Dean thinks that this place should be pretty. But for some reason, as he stares at the huge double doors at the entryway, he thinks it looks ugly. A behemoth marring the pure white landscape on the horizon.  _

_ It’s just a job.  _

_ Dean walks up the steps with the man and tries to ignore the hand that grips his waist too tight. As they get to the double doors, the man unlocks one side and shoves Dean inside, slamming the door shut and bracketing him against the wall. He’s not that much older than Dean nor is he much bigger, but he has the advantage of eating more than two meals every day. Dean feels small in the worst way.  _

_ It’s just a job.  _

_ Dean tolerates the heavy, grabbing hands as best as he can. He pretends, and he knows he’s not doing his best but every move that the man makes screams of desperation; even if Dean is doing a bad job acting, it’s enough for him in this moment. He pretends to moan and even grabs back a little, trying to figure out how far this is going to go before he can shut his brain off and stop thinking. Until the man stops biting at his neck, and he moves to kiss Dean right on the mouth.  _

_ He shies away. He doesn’t kiss clients. It’s not weird, and it’s a rule that most people have in this business. The difference with Dean is that Dean has never kissed a client because he’s never kissed anyone. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a romantic, but he doesn’t want his first kiss to be something that someone paid for. It’s the one thing left that he has to hold on to. So he doesn’t kiss clients. And he’s not going to start today.  _

_ Usually, the men who want to kiss him just nod sadly and carry on with their business.  _

_ But this man slaps him.  _

_ Dean is shocked at the rush of hot pain over his cheek. The same hand that hits him grabs his jaw roughly and forces him to look straight ahead, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from the sting. “I bought this. You do what I say.”  _

_ Dean starts to protest, but the sound is muffled against a hard set of lips crushing into his own. It’s awful, and his hands scrabble at the wall behind him in an attempt to find something to hold onto that isn’t the ugly thing in front of him. He closes his eyes and thinks it’s just a job, it’s just a job, but the hands grab tighter and he can’t fight the way he wants to cry.  _

_ His memory becomes hazy after the kiss.  _

_ In patches, he remembers. Most of it is just pain.  _

_ Hard hands squeezing his throat until his vision goes black. A muffled “stop”, mumbled brokenly into silk sheets. Heavy breaths in his left ear, wet and sharp. Blood trickling down his leg. _

_ It’s just a job, it’s just a job, it’s just a job.  _

_ Dean doesn’t remember how he gets back outside, but that’s where he is. He’s fighting against the snow and wind, jacket abandoned inside. The flannel does little to ward off the cold, and his jeans are soaked -- only partially from wading through the snow. His tears are hot against his face compared to the freezing wind that bites through his clothes, and he feels just as exposed out here as he did inside the building behind him.  _

_ Dean tries to walk as fast as he can, but it hurts. His body aches in a way that it never has before, and he feels a debilitating shame wash over him. All he wants to do is lie down in the snow and let the ice cover him, bury the disgusting heap of skin and bones that makes up his body. In his place, a solid white pile of snow: untarnished. Pure.  _

_ At some point, he slips and falls. His hands are numb, and his teeth are chattering. The frigid air bites all the way into his core, and Dean doesn’t remember what it’s like to feel warm.  _

_ He wakes.  _

  
  
  
  
  


_ *** _

  
  
  
  


He’s dripping in sweat even though it feels freezing in his room. Dean startles awake with heaving breaths, shoulders trembling as he curls in on himself. He experiences the uniquely horrific sensation of wanting to strip his skin from his body, arms scratching up the lengths of his arms in panic. 

He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. The memory sears under his skin, deep in his mind, and he wants it  _ out.  _ Dean doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He wants it gone. If he could rip out the part of his brain that stored this particular horror, he would reach in with his bare hands and wrench it from his skull in a heartbeat. 

Dean wants it gone. But it’s part of him, because it happened to his body. It’s not like Mom, where everything bad was in the hospital and he could leave it behind. It’s not like Dad’s words, abandoned in specific rooms of their shitty apartment. These scars are immutable -- and although Dean’s body is no longer his own, he is forced to carry it. 

Clawing at the back of his skull with blunt fingernails, Dean rakes his hands through his hair. He wants to focus on the dull physical pain instead of the throbbing in his skull, the visceral memory within the nightmare. Above all else, he wants to drink. That was the only thing that could numb it. 

After rocking in place on the bed for ten minutes, Dean realizes the feeling isn’t going to go away. He sobs, overwhelmed with disgust at himself. 

_ It’s never gonna stop. Get out, get out, god, fuck, get out, get a grip,  _ he thinks, quietly. _It was just a job._

Through the tears, he briefly thinks about how this is going to kill him. If he thinks about it one second longer, keeps it inside for another moment, it will kill him. And if the thought doesn’t finish him off, he decides that he’ll do it himself. 

So he rises from the bed, pushes down the hysterical feeling in his chest, and walks out of the room. He walks down the hall to the craft room and discovers that not only are all of the scissors locked up, but even the pencil sharpeners are nowhere to be found. He’s rifling around in the bins on the far wall for something sharp when he hears soft footsteps at the door. 

“Dean?” 

He turns around, eyes wet and cheeks flushed. In the dim light from the hallway, he makes out messy hair on the silhouette that can only belong to Cas. 

“Are you alright?” 

Cas walks closer to him, voice low and concerned. He stops five feet away, and this close Dean can see the faintest outline of his eyes and the curve of his mouth. 

Dean realizes that he’s breathing loudly and his shoulders are shaking, and he backs up against the wall. The bins clatter as he pushes up against them, and he swallows hard. He knows it’s just Cas, but he feels scared. 

Putting his hands up, Cas takes a step back. “Dean, it’s okay. It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you. What’s going on?” 

Without taking his eyes off of Dean, Castiel digs around in a bin to his right for a notepad. Dean looks at him for a long time and then has a brief realization. 

He could get it out. He can’t write it, because then the words are permanent and anyone could find them. It would be real. But he can get it out another way. Into the air. 

Before Castiel tries to hand him the notepad and pen, Dean stops him with a hand outstretched. He takes a deep, shuddering breath in, then closes his eyes as he exhales. Cas waits for him patiently. 

“Can I tell you something?” Dean asks, voice raw. 

He doesn’t open his eyes because he doesn’t want to see what Cas looks like right now. Doesn’t want to see the reaction to everything he’s about to say. He just needs to get it out, and this is the only way that he can do it. So he takes comfort in the darkness behind his eyelids. 

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies. His voice is quiet and cloaked in reverence, and Dean tells him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR TW for this chapter: discussion of suicide (multiple times), assault (not graphic however it does occur), prostitution, mention of child abuse, mention of alcoholism


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All the glory when he took our place  
> But he took my shoulders and he shook my face  
> And he takes and he takes and he takes"
> 
> \--casimir pulaski day, sufjan stevens

Light pours in through the window high on the wall, casting a soft glow on the edge of Castiel’s bare shoulder blade. Dean traces over the curve with his eyes from his bed, longing to follow the curve with his fingertips instead. Cas glows golden in the morning sun. Even on the hard floor of Dean’s room, he sleeps soundly. 

Despite removing his scrub top last evening before sleep, he kept the bracelets on -- an ocean of color adorning his wrists. Dean swallows as he looks -- no, _admires_ \-- and soaks up the last few minutes, just the two of them. Cas told him last night to wake him up early; he’d have to sneak back to the narcotics ward after 6:00AM to avoid the alarm on the door but before people started getting up for breakfast at seven. It’s a slim window, and judging from the sunlight it’s definitely after six. 

But Dean knows he’s probably never going to see Cas like this again, so he waits for a minute longer and allows himself to replay the events of the prior evening in his mind. 

It took him two hours to muddle through his story. It had been almost a year since he’d spoken that much, and he stuttered more than he wanted to admit. But at every strained pause, Cas would say “It’s okay, Dean,” and it really did feel okay. And then he would keep going. 

It was after midnight by the time he finished saying everything that he needed to say, so Cas was stuck on the opposite side of the unit anyway -- but he made a point to tell Dean that he would have stayed regardless. Then they walked quietly to Dean’s room, and Cas got on the floor without a word, bunching up his scrub top underneath his head like a pillow and telling Dean to wake him up early. 

Dean stared at the line of Cas’s back for a good five minutes, breaths slowing down until Cas must have thought he was asleep. After a few more minutes had passed, Dean’s eyes finally starting to drift shut, and Castiel whispered into the darkness. 

“Thank you for telling me.” 

Dean’s eyes had shot back open -- and even though he had just spent two hours talking, he found his throat closed once again. So, he silently traced the letters he so desperately wanted to speak aloud into words on the delicate skin of his wrist. 

_Thanks for listening._

Now, watching particles of dust pirouette in the beam of light, Dean traces the letters again. He tries to let his voice relax behind the clench of his jaw. He knows that he could easily reach down and shake Cas awake -- hand to shoulder, lifting him up just as Cas had raised him from the floor the first time they met. But Dean knows that his hands are freezing, and Cas will be warm, and he won’t be able to let go. 

With immense effort, he forces himself to speak. 

“Cas,” he says, rasping over the single syllable. Castiel does not rouse. If anything, he appears to sink deeper into sleep. 

_Goddamnit._ Dean takes a deep breath and sits up, hoping the louder noises of getting up and moving around will cause enough of a ruckus to awaken Cas. Sam is also blessed with being a deep sleeper, but the chaotic sounds of Dean getting out of bed and started with the day usually got Sam up pretty fast from even one room over. He stomps out of bed and creaks the mattress as loudly as his lithe frame can.

No success. 

_Fuck._

Dean sighs and steps over Cas’s body. Turning to face his friend, he makes the decision to step a little closer and speak a little louder -- but that proves to be a mistake almost instantly. From this side, Dean can look right at Cas’s face, and oh, _oh._

Dean doesn’t like to think of himself as a romantic. But in the gentle dawn on the floor of his bedroom, peacefully asleep, Cas looks almost angelic. 

Shaking, Dean reaches out and taps Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas. Gotta get up, buddy.” 

Finally, Castiel groans into wakefulness and cracks an eye open. “This is incredibly rude.” He rubs a hand over his eyes and sighs. 

Dean smiles, and Cas scowls. “What, you tired of my voice already?” 

“I could never get tired of your voice.” 

The phrase punches all the air out of Dean’s lungs, and he moves away to grab his toiletry bag for the showers. His heart is pounding in his ears, and he has no idea how to respond to the sincerity in Cas’s voice. 

“Unless you’re telling me the entire plot of Lord of the Rings again. I could barely handle it in the written form.” 

An unbidden grin spreads over Dean’s face. He tucks it away before he turns back around, instead putting on as appalled of an expression as he can muster. “The Lord of the Rings is sacred, Cas.” 

“I asked for a summary of your favorite book and you nearly wrote it out verbatim.” 

“It’s good!”

“Just because it has gremlins and the main character shares the name of your brother doesn’t make it good,” Cas says, stretching as he sits up. Dean stares for a second before turning his attention to the stunning graphics on the side of his toothpaste tube. 

“They’re _goblins.”_

“And that contributes to the merit of the work in what way?” 

“Are you always such a bitch in the mornings?” 

Cas sets his mouth in a straight line. “Just after sleeping on concrete floors.” 

Dean scoffs. “Oh, so I was supposed to sleep on the floor after all of that?” His heart is beating fast and hard against his ribs, anxiety in his chest. He knows it’s a joke. They’re joking. But he just acknowledged everything last night. And he knows that Cas isn’t going to use it to hurt him, because he trusts Cas enough to tell him in the first place. 

But terrifying, still. 

Cas looks at him for a beat, eyes searching. After a small eternity, he looks away and shrugs his shoulders. “All I’m saying is that I’m your guest, after all.” 

A wave of relief crashes down on Dean so heavy that he wants to collapse. “I’m not used to hosting,” he says, voice weak and stilted. 

He isn’t, truthfully. Dean doesn’t let anyone into his space -- ever. In the last six years, Dean can count the number of times Sam was allowed into his room on one hand. But having Cas there, last night, even if it was just an arm’s length away on the ground -- it felt good. The few times that Dean startled awake, nightmares fresh behind his eyes, Cas had been right there. And something about Cas being there had soothed Dean enough for his eyes to close again, which rarely happened.

(He had gotten five hours of sleep, which is abysmal for the average human being but stellar for Dean Winchester.)

“A good host definitely would have given me a little more warning to sneak out. For future reference,” Cas says, offering him a long look before he puts his scrub top back on. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

Castiel slips his shoes back on and runs a hand through tangled hair. Dean is so preoccupied with what he just said that he isn’t even distracted by the long stretch of Cas’s body as he reaches into the air and pops his back. 

Throat closing up again, Dean fights to spit out just one word. “Tonight?” 

Already at the door and heading out, Cas looks over his shoulder. “Yeah, tonight. My sister mailed me some more thread, and I want to teach you a new pattern. If you want.” 

Dean nods, wordless. 

“Excellent. Goodbye, Dean.” 

Cas checks down the hallway for one second, then sprints out to the other ward. The door remains cracked open, a sliver of artificial light from the hallway in sharp contrast to the sunlight beaming across the floor. Dean lets out a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding, and collapses back into the bed. 

For just a moment, he allows himself to smile. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
  
  


He’s scheduled to call Sam early in the morning, and he’s nervous. He hasn’t talked to anyone else today, but Dean feels the difference in the bolt of his jaw, a relaxation in his chest -- he could, if he chose. The anxiety that usually coils around his spine has disappeared for the time being, and it’s new. Talking to Cas all night and this morning felt new. It felt like talking for the first time all over again. It’s special. 

Dean wants to save some of his first new words for his brother. 

Breakfast passes as it usually does; he listens to Benny and Kevin talk about the ethics of hunting and the value of AP credits, then silently walks to the little room next to Bobby’s office. He takes a deep breath in before he dials the number. 

“Hi, Sammy,” he speaks into the quiet of the room. Dean closes his eyes and breathes out, then repeats it again, and again, and again. Finally, with a smile, he picks up the receiver. 

Three rings, then he picks up. “Hey, Cas,” Sam says, voice bright. “How are you and Dean doing? You gonna mail me a bracelet yet?” 

Dean’s smile gets bigger. “Pretty sure that’s not my name.” 

Sam gasps on the other end of the line. “ _Dean?_ You’re talking! Holy shit!”

“I took my first steps the other day, too. You missed out.” 

“Dean, this is _great!_ Is therapy going okay?” 

“It’s fine. I wanna hear about you, how’s school?” 

“You can’t start talking for the first time in months and try to push off the conversation on me.” 

Dean doesn’t reply. After ten seconds, Sam groans into the receiver. 

“You’re such a fucking jackass--”

“College really turning you into a sailor, what’s with all the cussing?” 

“ _You’re_ getting onto me about language? Really?” 

“Gotta get onto you about something else since I know you’re never gonna cut that fucking mane on your head.” 

Affronted, Sam scoffs. “You’ve had the same buzzcut Dad gave you at age five for seventeen years, Dean. I’m not sure you have any right to comment on hair.” 

At the mention of John, Dean feels cold. His throat closes up, and he wants to hang up and sit under the covers in his room. Instead, he slides his fingers over the friendship bracelets on his arm and takes a deep breath in. 

“I’ll comment on whatever I want, bitch.” 

“Whatever,” Sam says, voice just slightly bitter. After a beat, he speaks again -- softer. “Do you actually wanna hear about college?” 

The change in tone catches Dean off guard, and it takes him a second to respond. He stands in the room silently for a second, acutely aware of the lack of Cas’s presence for the first time. “Sure, yeah. Of course I do, Sammy.” 

Sam pauses again. “Okay, uh. Class is good, and there’s this girl named Jess,” he starts. 

For the first time since getting to Hope Valley, Dean uses up every minute of his phone call. 

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


There’s a new admit. Some kid named Adam, blonde and tall and sad-looking. He seems even younger than Kevin somehow, and he sticks by himself near the door as everyone on the floor floods in for group that afternoon. Lee got discharged last week, so Dean knew it was just a matter of time before someone new showed up. But he got used to the flow of every day with this specific group of people, even those he didn’t spend much time around. 

Meals with Benny and Kevin (and Ash, if he was feeling argumentative). Watching Rufus and Lee play cards in the corner, listening to Bobby tell old war stories on hikes each afternoon. The smile that Jody gave to him each time he went back for seconds. Charlie sneaking into the craft room to draw more bewildering depictions of her beloved dogs. Cas. 

Dean likes routine. And it took him a month, but he finally settled into one. And having this guy here makes him a little nervous, because he looks familiar. 

He can’t say for sure, but Dean thinks he may have shared a street corner with him once. Which means that he might know what Dean is. 

So he watches him, warily, from the other side of the room. Dean’s already taken a seat at his preferred spot between Benny and Ash, and he just watches. He’s used to keeping an eye on people without letting on -- it’s a necessary skill, within his old profession -- but Benny must say something funny, and Dean doesn’t smile, and he realizes that something is up. 

“Hey, brother. What’s up?” He says, eyebrows gathering together. “You alright?” 

The direct question startles Dean, and he looks at Benny with wide eyes. He swallows and shakes his head. 

Benny’s eyes narrow. “You sure?” 

Dean nods and waves off his concern. 

“Is it the new guy?” Ash asks. Dean takes just a second too long to respond, and Benny sighs. 

“I get you, man. It’s weird having new people show up.” 

“Especially when they’re actin’ this squirrelly,” Ash says, leaning back in his chair so far that it threatens to collapse beneath him. “Dude hasn’t even said hi to anyone, been here for hours.” 

“Well, that’s not always a bad sign,” Benny says it to Ash, but he’s looking at Dean. He offers a smile and shrugs. “He’ll fit in with everyone else, just takes some time. We’ll adjust.” 

Dean nods at him again. Benny’s words do comfort him a little bit; usually, he wouldn’t allow himself to feel better. But Ellen told him a few sessions ago that he needed to work on getting taken care of instead of doing the caring all the time, and he’s trying. So he lets the tension drop from his shoulders as much as he can and lets his gaze shift somewhere else. 

Ellen calls the group to sit in the circle of chairs a few minutes later, and everyone takes their usual spots -- a mix of green and blue scrubs. Two chairs remain open, and Adam selects the one closest to the door after lingering in the hallway for a minute. Ellen withdraws a slip of paper from her denim jacket and makes an unhappy noise. 

“We’re missing one. Question for everyone in blue, y’all know where Novak is?” 

At the mention of Castiel’s name, Dean perks up. There’s a soft chorus of _No_ from the narcotics members, and Dean’s heartbeat picks up. Somehow over the past few weeks, he and Castiel had never ended up in group together -- every week patients get mixed around a little bit, but he and Dean had eluded one another. 

Worry starts to crawl up into Dean’s chest again. There are a lot of variables today that he wasn’t counting on, and he wanted to talk today. _Talk_ talk. And he really meant it, even if he only promised it to himself. But he doesn’t know if he can, now. 

“Alright, well, we can just get started anyway,” Ellen says, and someone in blue that Dean doesn’t recognize pipes up. An older man, graying hair and something sharp behind his gaze.

“Not like Novak hasn’t heard it all before,” he interrupts, and the two men next to him chuckle. Dean clenches his jaw and tucks his hands into tight fists. 

“Shut up, Zach. Recovery is different for everyone,” Ellen breezes past the comment without even looking up from her papers, and Dean would cheer for her if it didn’t feel like a rope was around his neck. Instead, he nods in agreement when Ash says “Hell yeah.” 

“Okay. Everyone, we’ve got a new member and our groups got changed up a little this week, so we’re gonna do introductions real quick. Zachariah, you can go first since you’re feeling so chatty.” 

He scowls at her before plastering on a piranha smile. “My name is Zachariah, and I have a bit of a dilaudid problem. Since Novak isn’t here, I’ll fill in for him too --” 

“ _Enough.”_

Ellen’s voice cuts through the air, sharp. “I don’t appreciate someone who’s late either, but you speak for yourself and no one else. Benny, how about you go next?”

Benny takes a soft breath in. “Hey there, to anyone who doesn’t know me. My name is Benny, and I’m an alcoholic.” 

Everyone says _hi, Benny,_ and they keep going around the circle. When it’s Adam’s turn to speak up, he sits in silence for five seconds before speaking up. 

“My name is Adam.” 

They wait, but his eyes are glacial as he stares at the rest of the group. After a second, Rufus speaks up next to him, and the rest of the group is introduced smoothly. 

Then it’s Dean’s turn. Everyone looks at him, expectant, and at this point he’d usually throw up a hand-written note that said “MY NAME IS DEAN AND I DRINK TOO MUCH”, scribbled in dark ink. But he told himself he was going to talk today, and he didn’t bring a pad of paper. He didn’t even bring a pen. 

The rope tightens, and Dean wants to run. 

_Fuck. You had it, you had it, you did it this morning, why can't you do it now, don't look at the kid don't look at him --_

He swallows hard, but Adam is staring at him, and panic starts to settle into his bones. He can feel his heartbeat getting faster, cold sweat collecting at his brow, when pounding footsteps distract him near the entrance to the Sunshine room. 

Cas clambers through the door, chest heaving. Dean stares at him, and Cas locks eyes with Dean after looking around the room. Briefly, he smiles. 

“Apologies for my lateness. My phone call ran over time.”

He apologizes to the room, but he’s staring at Dean. 

With a deep sigh, he takes the seat next to Adam. The younger man stares at him with wide, confused eyes, and Castiel extends a hand. 

“Hello. My name is Castiel. I have an unfortunate proclivity for using heroin.” 

Adam shakes his hand wordlessly before mumbling his name. As Dean watches Castiel reach out, he notices a thin white strip of gauze under the bracelets on his left arm. Before he can think about it too hard, a familiar obnoxious voice fills the air.

“Is heroin your only _proclivity,_ Novak?” Zachariah calls out from the other side of the circle, earning another withering look from Ellen. Castiel doesn’t turn to look at him; instead, he gazes across the circle at Dean and winks, once. And even though Dean feels his cheeks turn bright red, the panic dissipates as the rope loosens around his throat. 

“One more word out your mouth and I’m gonna slap you upside the head,” Ellen spits out. “We’ve wasted enough time on this, let’s get started.” 

Ellen takes a deep breath, and Dean seizes his only chance. He knows she'll probably be pissed at him for interrupting, but maybe she won't get _too_ mad. At least not under these circumstances.

With his hand slightly raised, he clears his throat. “I’m Dean, by the way.” Adam nods at him once, unfazed.

But at the sound of his voice, everyone else in the room goes silent. 

Dean looks down at his hands and fidgets. He can feel the heat of Benny’s gaze right next to him, Ellen staring him down from the front of the room -- he’s scared to look up at anyone, because he doesn’t know what he’ll see. When he raises his head, Dean decides to keep his eyes on Cas; this isn’t new to him. He’s prepared for it, he’s heard it already. He knows what Cas is going to look like. He’s going to look normal, and he’s not going to stare at Dean with huge eyes and gaping mouths like everyone else. 

So when he finally lifts his gaze and looks at his friend, he’s surprised to find something that looks more like awe. 

Ellen clears her throat. “Alright then. Everybody introduced, let’s get started. We’re talking about worth. Particularly, self-worth. Everybody know what self-worth is? Ash, give me a definition.” 

“Just some other word for self-esteem.” 

“True, but not what I’m looking for. Rufus?” 

“How you think about yourself?” 

“Great. Exactly. We’re talking about how _you_ think about yourself. Because in order to recover, you gotta get to the point where you think you deserve to recover. So, we’re gonna go around the circle and everyone’s gonna say something good about themselves.” 

Dean’s sweating. He’s sweating more than when he sprinted out of Crowley’s deli, stolen apples in hand. He’s sweating more than the first time his Dad held a cigarette out and told him to roll up his sleeve. More, even, than the few heavy seconds before he told Cas last night. 

He gulps. 

_Just copy what someone else says. Easy._

Rufus starts, and they work around the circle. Every now and then, they pause and wait for someone to talk. Give them time. Ellen doesn’t rush anyone; instead, she offers quiet encouragement. 

Dean’s racking his brain for something to say that isn’t _great at fucking for money_ when it’s Adam’s turn to speak. And he has a hard look on his face, mouth drawn into a thin line, when he finally does. 

“Who decides that someone’s worth saving? Worth recovering?” He laughs, and it's a harsh sound in the newfound quiet of the room. “What makes you the expert?” 

Ellen keeps her face neutral. “I’m not. And I never claimed to be.” 

“It doesn’t matter, though. You’re leading this, telling everyone they should love themselves and shit like that. How can you do that when you’ve probably never been where we have?” 

He looks frantically around the room, makes eye contact with Dean before gazing back at Ellen. “You don’t know what any of us have done. Telling all of us to fucking forgive ourselves. Have you ever actually even hurt someone? Not made your husband mad or disappointed your mom or anything, but _really_ hurt someone?” 

Ellen stares at him for a long time. Finally, she blinks and sits back in her seat. She stares at a point on the floor about three feet in front of her chair. 

“I killed my daughter.” 

The room goes cold. 

Adam’s eyes go wide, and Ellen nods once. The only person in the room who doesn’t stare is Cas, who simply nods along with Ellen as she speaks. 

“It was January of 1991, and I was drunk. I realize I don’t have enough whiskey to last me for the next day. And it’s a Saturday, so I know I can’t get any tomorrow, since this is rural Nebraska,” she says, voice calm. “So I decide that I’ve got to go get some tonight, before the stores shut down for the night. It’s about ten at night, and my fourteen-year-old daughter is the only one home. She had just got back from seeing some friends.” 

Dean feels something in his chest snap. 

“I go to her and beg her to get me something. I say _please, honey, I’m your momma._ Just go get me something to drink. We’ve been practicing, you won’t get pulled over, you can do it. You’re a big girl, you can drive the car down there. And it was only a five minute drive. So I put the keys in her hand, and she left.” 

Dean feels something cold drift over his skin as a phantom set of keys slips through his fingers. He thinks about John, wasted and begging. He thinks about barely being tall enough to see over the wheel. 

“I passed out for a little bit. When I woke up, an hour had passed and she wasn’t back. I was so damn mad that I decided to get out and walk there myself, even in the snow.” 

She looks at Adam. “I saw the wreck right down the road. Driver’s side, guy ran a stop sign. Killed her on impact.” She looks down again.

“She never would have been there if it hadn’t been for me. But I would say that I’ve hurt someone.” 

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize that he was holding. 

“Everyone has value. I don’t know what you did, Adam. But you’re still worth something. Everyone here is.” 

The members of the circle stare at her, and Adam gives the slightest nod. After a moment, he speaks again. “I’m good at chess.” 

Dean keeps listening, waits for his turn. He rolls Ellen’s words around in his skull.

Everything that he thinks of hurts -- because he's not _really_ good at anything. Nothing that's his own. He's not worth anything that he didn't take from someone else. He's good at raising Sam, but that's because he learned everything from Mom. And he's good at fixing cars, but that's because Dad showed him how. And he can't talk about his job.

With only two more people ahead of him, he looks down at his hands where he's tracing over the bracelets on his wrist. And he thinks _hey, these are okay._

_Cas showed me how to make the first one, but I made the second one by myself. And it's okay._

When Ellen finally looks at him, expectant, he takes a deep breath. 

He holds up his hand and points at the bands of thread. “I can make these.” 

Across the circle, the corner of Castiel's mouth twitches up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: mention of prostitution, detailed discussion of alcoholism, discussion of child abuse, discussion of substance abuse


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Show me pictures that hang in your house  
> Pictures that hang in your mouth  
> Candescent insects  
> Crosses and fishnecks  
> I have nothing to pray to you now"
> 
> \--forwards beckon rebound, by adrianne lenker

Dean hears the last door shut on the hall at 9:48pm, and he makes his way to the narcotics ward at 9:50. He’s freshly showered, droplets of water still clinging to his eyelashes, but he doesn’t wait to go see Cas -- he has questions, and he wants answers. 

Firstly, what the _fuck_ was up with that Zachariah guy? Secondly, what was Cas good at? 

(He had been skipped over in the haze after Adam’s outburst, and Dean thought he seemed deflated at being left out of the discussion. Watching the curve of Castiel’s mouth drift down had made something ache in Dean’s chest. So he wanted the ache to go away. But more importantly, he never wanted to see Cas look like that again.)

And thirdly, what had happened to Cas’s arm? 

As he walks softly down the hall and through the double doors -- the red warning letters more of a welcome home sign at this point -- Dean encounters an obstacle he’s never encountered before. 

There’s a silhouette halfway down the hall in front of him, and Dean can already tell that it isn’t a patient. Members of the ward have a unique downward slope of the shoulders; there’s an inherent shame of being admitted, even if it’s the first step to getting better. Even the most outspoken members, like Benny or Zachariah, carry themselves with timidity. 

But this silhouette is standing tall and strong, despite its short stature. It’s dim in the hallway, but Dean can see that the scrubs are a different color from the blues and greens that he’s used to -- in fact, they almost look black contrasted against the beige tiles and walls. 

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Shit._

Nervous about being caught, he ducks into a small alcove embedded into the wall and tries to slow the rapid beating of his heart. He feels his throat get tight, a familiar feeling, and he takes comfort in the silence of his hideaway for a moment. But as he closes his eyes to calm down, Dean realizes that he can just barely make out the voice of the silhouette in the darkness. 

“...can’t keep doing this,” the silhouette says, tone acrid. Dean thinks there’s something familiar about it, but he can’t place it. 

The responding voice is hushed and deeper than that of the silhouette, and Dean can’t understand. From down the hall, it merely sounds like a hint of a whisper. The silhouette responds with a huff, and Dean strains to hear again.

“This isn’t just dangerous for you. It’s a risk for me too, every time you pull this shit.” 

Whispering again. 

After a long few seconds, there’s silence. So much quiet passes through the space that Dean starts to wonder if the silhouette and her counterpart have moved away, but he finally hears what seems like one of the saddest sighs in the world. 

(Dean’s complete ranking of sad sighs: 

  1. Mom when she found out the cancer came back. 
  2. Sam after getting his fifth college rejection letter. 
  3. Charlie when Dean told her he kind of liked the Star Wars prequels. 
  4. The silhouette. 
  5. Dean, the third time Sam told him he Had A Problem.) 



“I care about you. But this is dangerous.” 

More whispering. Dean hears a brief rustling of fabric, and then footsteps echoing down the opposite side of the hall. He waits for what feels like a small eternity before he lets all the air out of his lungs. 

He walks quietly down the hallway before stopping in front of Castiel’s door, and he _knows_ that his heart shouldn’t be pounding, but it is. And he knows that he shouldn’t have spent so much time worrying about how his wet hair looked in the bathroom mirror, and he shouldn’t have put on a fresh pair of scrubs just to come see Cas.

More than anything, he knows that he shouldn’t have spent all of dinner and free time working on the little bracelet that’s now safely tucked in his pocket. 

But Cas had just looked so sad earlier. And this is the one thing that Dean can do, so he does it for Cas. 

Before he can knock on the door, it creaks open quietly -- and there he is. Cloaked in shadow, Dean can usually barely make out the features of Castiel’s face; but now, the soft light from the hall clearly reflects the hint of tears in his eyes. Immediately, Dean is ready to fight. 

“Hello, Dean. You’ve been standing out here for quite some time,” he says, walking back into his room and immediately beginning to rummage around in the bins of thread and art supplies. Even though his voice is neutral and steady, Dean can’t forget what he just saw. This now makes two times that Dean has seen Castiel truly, _thoroughly_ sad, and he wants to destroy whoever made him feel this way. 

“Hey, buddy. How are you doin’?” 

Dean can feel how ridiculous the words are coming out of his mouth, but he powers through them anyway as he crosses the threshold into Castiel’s room. He takes up his usual spot on the floor next to the head of the bed and tries to ignore the small gift burning a deep hole into his pocket. 

“Swell. How are you?” 

Cas doesn’t turn to face him. Instead, he keeps rummaging in each bin with an urgency that Dean has never seen him possess. Even when Castiel ran from his room last morning, it was more of a gentle jog -- he moved through the world easily, never fighting the glide of time. But now, watching him toss supplies haphazardly over the bed and digging down to his elbows for some mystery item, he seems to be scrambling for something. 

“All good. What are you, uh. Looking for?” 

Castiel still doesn’t look at him. 

“Particular thread.” 

Dean waits for a second, expecting an elaboration on the importance of this _particular thread._ When an explanation never arrives after two minutes, he speaks again. “Can I help?” 

“No, thank you. That’s alright.” 

Dean’s a little ticked off. He came here to try and help Cas feel _better_ and now the guy won’t even let him help out to find some damn thread. Not only that, but Cas usually spends a lot of their time together looking at Dean; and he doesn't like it about himself, but he's kind of vain. He likes to be looked at, and he likes catching Cas staring. It almost feels like a game. But now -- Cas won't even _look_ at him. For a moment, Dean thinks _look at me, look at me, look at me._

Cas continues to dig around.

_Fuck it._ Dean stands up and walks over to his friend next to the dresser. Castiel doesn’t shift aside to accommodate him, looking almost entranced in his search. Dean sighs and sidles up next to him, ignoring the tiny sparks of electricity down his shoulder when he bumps into Cas. 

But for the first time, Cas reacts like Dean is a bolt of lightning. 

He jolts back, eyes wide as he almost trips over himself in an attempt to get away from Dean. The gesture simultaneously offends and relieves Dean, but he makes the executive decision to not analyze the nuances of those emotions and instead stares at his friend. Cas stares back, expression blank. He swallows, and then opens his mouth to speak. 

Dean beats him to it. 

“The hell is wrong with you?” 

Cas barks out a harsh laugh. “That’s a long list.” 

Dean exhibits an incredible amount of self restraint and refuses to roll his eyes. Instead, he flips Cas off. “What’s your deal, dude? Is this about that Zach fucker from group?” 

Castiel shakes his head. “Zachariah has absolutely no influence on my general demeanor.” 

“Then why was he trying to rile you up so bad?” 

Cas sighs. “He didn’t succeed, so what does it matter?” 

“You’re in here almost crying and looking like you want to jump out the window, so he succeeded _a little!”_

Dean hears Cas’s jaw click as he shuts his mouth, and the sharpness of the sound makes Dean freeze in place. 

“It has nothing to do with him.”

Dean throws his hands up. “Fine, whatever. What’s his problem with you then?”

“He believes I’m sleeping with the night nurse on staff and he has a particularly disgusting affection for her.” 

Dean pauses for a second, and then the pieces come together.

_Oh. The silhouette._

A chill crawls out into his arms and legs. Once again, Dean decides not to analyze why he feels this way. Why he’s reacting like this to that new piece of information. 

He knows, though. Deep in his gut, jealousy rears its gnarly head. 

Beneath that, there’s something worse. Because Dean had made a few _assumptions,_ after meeting Cas. Sure, maybe he shouldn’t have just assumed those things -- maybe Cas stared at him too long and winked at him too much and it was just because he was weird, not because he liked Dean. Or liked dudes, in general. Knowing him a little better now, it seemed perfectly plausible that Cas was just a weird little guy. Not necessarily a guy-who-likes-guys type of person. 

That assumption squashed, Dean stares at his friend. 

His close friend, who he never even considered might not like guys the way he liked guys. 

Dean feels two conflicting sensations tighten around his ribs at the same time, and two thoughts flit through his mind: the first one, soft, is _oh, it’s not that Cas would never like me. It’s that he would never like anyone like me to begin with._

The second is sharp. 

_There was never even a chance he would like you. How could you be so fucking stupid?_

Dean swallows and nods. “Are you?” 

Castiel rolls his eyes, unaware of the tornado of self-loathing that just blew everything down in its path through Dean’s brain. “We knew each other in high school. Some things happened then, but now she’s just a dear friend. We happened to reconnect under circumstances that aren’t ideal.” 

The rope around his throat returns, and Dean rubs the back of his neck in an attempt to loosen the knot. He doesn't know what to say, so he lets his mouth run on autopilot. Empty. “Cool. She hot?” 

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “She’s an attractive woman. What does it matter?” 

Dean shrugs a bit too hard a little too fast, simultaneously desperate to know more about this person who Cas had _felt things_ for and also never wanting to think about it again. Dean takes in a breath and breaks his gaze, staring at a tile on the floor and wondering how to respond. He loathes how bothered he is by learning this information, and he feels like crawling out of his body to escape the unpleasant static feeling under his skin. 

His brain supplies _just didn’t know you were getting lucky in this shithole, what’s she like,_ because that’s the thing that will make him hurt the most. And he’s used to hurting -- Dean can hurt, and he can get through it. It’s familiar. 

But Ellen told him three days to try and hurt himself less, since the world had already hurt him enough. 

After ten seconds, he decides that he’s hurting enough right now. And if he does this, he can kind of tell Ellen about it. And maybe she'll be proud of him, and tell him he did a good job. Maybe.

Dean meets Cas’s eyes again, and he fists his fingers tight to focus on something other than the bitterness in his throat. “Whatever, it doesn’t. If Zach isn’t your problem, then what is?” 

This time, Cas looks away. “Nothing of import.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“I don’t want to _talk_ about it, Dean,” Cas says, and it almost sounds like a plea. 

Dean sets his jaw and braces himself. With quick hands, he reaches out and grips tight onto both of Castiel’s shoulders, preventing him from backing up. Cas looks up at him, panic in his eyes, and Dean just squeezes tighter. 

“Look. I spewed all of my shit to you. You can talk to me about feeling crappy. I’m kind of an expert.” 

Cas stares at him. 

“Talk to me, man.” 

Cas stares at him longer, and something sad crosses his face. “I don’t know how to.” 

Dean squeezes his right shoulder again, happy with just the small victory that Cas might _try._ It feels like his hands are burning, but he keeps them in place for a second longer. 

“That’s okay. How about I ask questions? Like therapy, but better since it’s me,” Dean says, cracking a grin and offering a wink. 

Weakly, Cas smiles. The sadness doesn’t fade, but he tries. “Alright.” 

“Cool. Why did you get sad in group? I know they skipped you over the question, looked like you felt bad about getting left out.” 

For what feels like the first time in his life, it appears that Dean was correct on the first try. Cas’s small smile disappears, replaced by something that can only be described as pure distress. 

“It wasn’t about getting left out.” 

“Then what was it?” Dean asks, hyperaware of the bracelet in his pocket again. He wants to give it, ease some of the pain on Cas’s face. Even if it’s just for a second. But he doesn't want Cas to stop talking. 

Cas pauses. 

“It was about the only thing that I’m good at. It's absurd.” 

“What? You’re fucking crazy. You’re good at tons of stuff.” 

Even in the shadows, Dean can see Castiel’s jaw tense. The shadows under his eyes spread out onto his cheeks as he tilts his head down. “I’m not, Dean. I’m a good addict, and that’s all that I am. It is all I am ever going to be.” 

“My former point stands. You’re fucking crazy. How can you say that?” 

“It’s a fact.” 

“Cas. You’re good at _so much shit._ You taught me how to make these! I stole this from you!” Dean exclaims, brandishing his wrist as though it’s irrefutable evidence of Castiel’s intrinsic value. He almost grabs Cas's wrist to show him the dozen rings of beautiful thread, but he sees another white bandage on his other arm and decides that he doesn't want to risk hurting him. He wonders about the bandages, but files away that question for later; for now, he's on a mission. “And you went to Columbia! You’re great at school, you’re the smartest fucking person here.”

“Dropout.” 

“You had some tough shit happen to you, same as all of us. That doesn’t mean you’re not fucking good at anything else.” 

Castiel’s voice pricks like thorns into Dean’s skin. “None of what happened before matters. Using is my life. I use, I feel good, and it’s the only thing that makes me feel _anything_ ,” he spits out, taking a step closer into Dean’s space. His heartbeat skyrockets for all the wrong reasons, and Dean realizes that this is the closest Castiel has ever come to him. His gaze is electric blue and Dean feels glued to his spot on the floor. 

“My family despises me. I have no chance at starting a career of any sort. My body is _rotting._ And all of that is solely because I am a _wonderful_ addict.” 

Castiel turns away from him and continues digging in the bins. The rummaging noises sound thunderous in the silence surrounding them, and Dean starts to feel a little annoyed. After a moment, as Castiel’s words truly start to sink in, a familiar emotion takes root in Dean’s chest and slows down his heart. 

Angry and searching for something to say, Dean huffs out a breath as he fumbles to collects his thoughts. “You talk to Anna every week!” 

Cas stills. 

“I call Anna every week, yes.” 

“See! You’re wrong, I just proved you wrong. Family doesn’t hate you,” Dean says as he watches Castiel shake his head, and he digs deeper. 

“You could finish college, easy. You think admissions people wouldn’t eat this story up? Come on. And even if you don’t want to go back to the ivory tower you can finish at the good ol’ Johnson County Community College in Lawrence, Kansas.” 

Cas shakes his head again, but Dean can see the hint of a smile on his face. Cas stops pretending to look for thread, and instead grips the edges of the dresser until his knuckles whiten. He tilts his chin forward and takes a deep breath, the outline of his shoulders and spine straining against the fabric of his shirt. The rigid posture makes worry flicker in Dean’s chest. In the back of his mind, he's trying to channel the same energy that he gave Sam when he got dumped on prom night last year -- that was a tough one, but Dean brought his little brother back from the pits of despair with some jokes and his first beer. Dean has a feeling it might take a little more with Cas, though. 

He forges ahead.

“It’s a great fuckin' place, I tried taking a class there one time. Wasn’t my thing, but y’know. Your credits would probably transfer, if you spin it right,” he jokes, and Castiel exhales a weak laugh. And it isn't his normal laugh, and he looks like he's on the brink of falling apart, but it's still such a pretty laugh. It distracts Dean for a second, and he feels his fingers tighten into a fist so that he doesn't reach out and touch Cas's shoulder again. He's focused so resolutely on not doing something stupid with his hands that he forgets that saying something really, _really_ stupid is a common side effect of talking for the first time in months.

“And your body definitely ain’t rotting, believe me. I’ve seen some ugly looking bodies, and that’s not what you got. You’re--” 

_Kind of gorgeous. Devastatingly handsome._

Dean stops. 

He stops at first because he realizes that he’s about to say something that he’ll absolutely regret, and then he stops because Castiel turns and looks at him again. And his posture is still unyielding, but his face is neutral. Unreadable, waiting. 

Dean gulps. “You’re… good. Functional.” 

Immediately, Castiel turns away with a harsh laugh. It’s an ugly sound, yanked from his throat. He hunches over the bins again, turning his face away from Dean. “Functional, of course. This body has a vendetta against my best interests in every possible way.”

The phrasing sends a chill over Dean’s skin, and he holds his breath. 

He remembers sitting in the office as he received his diagnosis. At the time, everything the doctor told him was static -- so he had to go the public library and find an old book about it to figure out what was really wrong with him. Because he knew there was something wrong, _really wrong,_ but Dean didn't know how it worked. How it would kill him. 

The library had been a twenty-minute walk away from his shitty little apartment, and he walked there at the end of a bottle of whiskey when he felt like he could handle it a little better. The librarian was a pretty middle-aged woman who showed him to the right section, and he found one book in the middle of the "Medical" shelf. The cover was red.

He remembers the way that the world crumbled around his feet as he learned more about what his future was and is going to be: years of pain, the inevitability of infection, the weakening of his body until fever and fatigue overtake him. He read that he had five to ten years, best-case, until his body got so weak that he'd barely be able to move. After that, maybe a year or two, living ravaged by illness. Then he would die, covered in sores or cancer or both, fighting for each breath as his fragile body betrayed him. 

Not only did he think about the physical suffering to come, but the fact that he would have to do it entirely on his own. 

Dean traces the outline of Castiel’s profile with his eyes. And he knows Cas isn’t talking about the same thing. But he understands.

“I get it.” 

Cas glances up. “What do you mean?” 

For the first time that night, he sounds like himself. Inquisitive, earnest. Softer. 

Dean pauses for a second. 

_You could tell him._

He could. 

But he thinks about how he’s already burdened Castiel with one of the worst things that’s ever happened to him, and here he is trying to make _Cas_ feel better -- but he just wants to complain more about his own problems. Petty, stupid little problems that are his own fault anyway. 

_You can’t tell him._

Dean shrugs, then offers the best that he can. “It doesn’t feel like my body’s even mine anymore.” 

Castiel’s shoulders drop. He stands up, back to his full height, and Dean sees a ripple of something pass over his face that he can’t identify. With a deep breath, Cas steps close to him again. This time, Dean’s heart doesn’t pick up speed. 

“Dean. Your body is your own, always. No matter how others have treated it. It belongs to you, and it’s a wonderful thing,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just send a tidal wave crashing over Dean’s head, like he didn’t just crack his ribs open. 

Dean doesn’t have a response. Instead, he opens and closes his mouth, trying desperately to remember what it feels like to breathe in and out. He stares at Castiel with wide eyes. Castiel stares back at him, unflinching. Unafraid. 

It’s been too long. Dean knows it’s been too long to look at him like this, to look at a friend like this. So he tries to look away, fighting the urge to lean forward just a few more inches. But in his battle to keep away, his eyes are weak -- he glances down and catches the curve of Castiel’s mouth, pretty in the shadows. 

Dean tears his eyes away and focuses on the sliver of pale light coming in through the space under the door. Castiel keeps looking at him, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with that. Instead, he focuses on the burning in his cheeks and clears his throat. 

“Thanks, man. Do you wanna, uh -- work on some bracelets? Get your mind off things?” 

In the corner of his eye, Castiel nods. 

He sits on the floor, and Dean gathers their supplies silently. He cuts the thread, gently ties the thread together to start the weaving, and hands the strings to Castiel. For what feels like infinity, they work in silence. 

After infinity ends, Castiel speaks without gazing up from the threads stretched between his fingers. 

“Thank you, Dean.” 

Dean swallows and nods instead of replying. In his pocket, the bracelet burns white-hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: discussion of substance abuse, discussion of HIV/AIDS


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "To make some music of your own, amen  
> Or you could hate it softly to yourself alone  
> A man among amens"
> 
> -familiarity, punch brothers

Four days pass, and Dean finds himself incapable of letting go of the bracelet in his pocket. He finds reasons not to give it each time he sees Cas -- Cas has a fresh mystery bandage on his wrist, and Dean doesn’t want to accidentally hurt him, so he can’t give it then. The day after that, Dean examines the bracelet and realizes that he could have made the pattern longer and the braided ends shorter, so he unties half of his work and remakes the loop of thread. The next day Cas is so fatigued that he falls asleep on Dean’s shoulder as they work, so his opportunity is gone; instead, he relishes in the weight of Castiel leaning against him and the soft tickle of dark hair against his neck. 

When Castiel woke, he apologized profusely as he rubbed his eyes and told Dean that he should have woken him up. Dean smiled at him and told him it was okay, voice quiet in the scant few inches that separated them. Dean thought about how easy it would be to lean in and ruin everything he spent the last two months building, and decided not to ruin it. 

The day after that, Dean sees Meg at Cas’s door again. And he was going to do it, he was ready, he made it _perfect,_ and Cas had been smiling at him more than usual in the craft room -- but Meg was there, standing in the doorframe, having a similar conversation to the one he’d overheard before. 

Because Dean hates himself, he stole glances this time. He watched her lean forward into Castiel’s space, reach out a hand and lace their fingers together. He felt an ugliness crawl up the back of his throat and started to walk back to the double doors, cloaked in shadow in the hall, but he looked back one more time. And it was dark, but he saw the soft movement of Castiel’s hands drifting down the length of her spine as she hugged him. 

He walked through the double doors silently and willed away the sting of hot tears in his eyes. The bracelet was shoved into the back of his dresser, alongside Cas’s two notes from his first week at Hope Valley. Dean has no intention of touching it until he leaves in four weeks, at which points he plans to throw it away. 

Now, darkness falls and he itches to walk across the threshold to the narcotics ward. Instead, he pushes down the loneliness tugging at his ribs and finds himself heading to the kitchen. 

Jody is working later than she should -- which is expected -- and Dean can see the lights from the back of the kitchen flooding out into the dining hall in long yellow stripes. A sigh escapes his lips as he moves forward, excited to find refuge in Jody’s kitchen. She served pie today at lunch, and he knows there’s going to be an extra slice in the kitchen. She always saves him one.

He used to be scared of eating too much, getting too heavy for his job. He knew part of the appeal for clientele was the whole demure waif schtick, which he could pull off easily the first couple of years. But as he grew up and got wider in the shoulders and the hips, he feared that he’d lose some of his regulars. And yeah, he was banking off of their creepiness; but their creepiness paid the bills and got enough food in his and Sam’s stomachs. So he made the executive decision to eat just enough to get by, and Sam would have the rest. 

Dean likes to tell himself that it was his choice. It’s the only way to make it bearable. But he’s had a hard time with food, since then -- ever since he started junior year. Eating was always a complicated thing, and he saw it as a necessity to keep the machine of his body moving rather than something in which to find joy, create family. 

Jody showed him that food could be a hell of a lot more than fuel. 

So Dean smiles as he starts walking behind the serving station, following the familiar clattering of pans and pots to find the woman who seemed like the closest thing to a mother he would ever have again. Except as he gets closer, hand hovering right above the handle to the kitchen door, Dean hears a voice. A voice that decidedly does not belong to Chef Jody. 

“Look, I know that eating doesn’t come easy to a lot of y’all. But I am _not_ going to tolerate someone turning down everything that I put my blood, sweat, and tears into,” she gripes, voice familiarly sour. 

“Doesn’t sound like this place would pass a health inspection,” the voice says, and it takes Dean a solid five seconds to connect it to Adam. He gulps and draws his hand away, disappointment flooding his lungs as he turns to walk back to his room, sans pie and sans motherly advice. Unbidden tears spring up in his eyes again, and in his hurry to get as far away as fast as possible he runs into the edge of the counter. Cutlery clatters on the bar and he feels a dull pain radiate into his hip. _Fuck. Fuck, idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot._

“Dean? That you?” 

He freezes. Jody calls out for him again, and Dean hangs his head while he rubs one hand along his rapidly-bruising hipbone. 

“There’s only one person that quiet who can make this much noise. C’mon in and get your slice before I shove it down this kid’s throat,” she projects, and Dean shakes his head. He knows she’ll be sad if he doesn’t come in, but he feels like crying, and he knows that he _looks_ like he wants to cry, and it's okay -- Jody can handle that part of him. He just doesn’t want _Adam_ to see it. Adam, who knows what he is. The kid who’s combative and bitchy and always talking too much in group. Dean can barely _stand_ the guy -- he doesn’t want to spend his golden time with Jody in the company of the brat who thinks he knows more than anyone else on the damn ward.

But it’ll make Jody sad if he doesn’t. So Dean sighs and walks back, adjusting the cutlery as he goes.

As he walks through the door, he finds Adam sitting in the place where he usually sits -- a metal stool next to the stovetop, uncomfortable and slightly too short. Dean pushes down the bitterness in his mouth and remains close to the entryway as he plasters on a small smile for Jody. She walks up to him with a wider grin than usual and claps him on the shoulder. 

“I haven’t seen you this late in a few days. Figured I’d have to make the pie to get you to come back and visit, and damn if I wasn’t right,” she says, hand warm and calloused. She’s got red splatters all over her apron, and despite the discussion of pie the kitchen smells of warm garlic and ripe tomatoes, simmering in the world’s largest pot on the stove. After handing Dean a spoonful of sauce to try, she heads into the back to retrieve what is certainly going to be an ungodly amount of apple pie. 

Dean just shrugs and looks at her sheepishly, avoiding Adam on the stool. He intends to avoid him entirely, getting in and out as quickly as possible. In his mind, Dean thinks that if he scarfs down enough pie there won’t be enough room left in his body for feeling bad. Maybe if he eats it fast enough he’ll even feel a little sick, and that’ll _really_ be a good distraction from the lingering ache in his chest. After the thought crosses his mind, he trails down another path of thinking. 

_Probably not the best coping mechanism in the world. Better than fucking whiskey, at least,_ he thinks. When Jody returns with two massive servings, he smiles lopsidedly. _Baby steps._

He must stare at the pie for a little too long though because Jody squeezes his shoulder again. “Better to kill your heart than your liver right now, Winchester,” she says, laughing a little. “Take a seat. Someone skinnier than you finally showed up to this joint.” 

In the corner, Adam turns red. Curled in on himself on the comically small seat, he looks even more like an awkward teenager than he did during the group session. He clears his throat and looks like he’s about to say something, then quickly changes his mind. He avoids Dean’s gaze and stares at his white hospital shoes instead, hands clasped together. There’s a small plate of pie next to him, half-finished. 

Dean doesn’t want Jody to think he’s a dick. 

(And, in this moment, Dean thinks that maybe Adam looks a little bit like Sam when he was younger. But he won’t tell anyone that, least of all himself.)

“Better finish it. Best pie this side of the Mississippi,” he says, even going so far as to offer a little smile. 

Adam looks at him with huge eyes, then nods. “Your name is Dean, right?” He picks up his fork and starts to poke at golden pastry on the plate again. 

“The one and only,” he says. 

Jody laughs from her stance at the stove. “You started talking and got a hell of a lot cockier.” 

Dean grins at her. “C’mon, Jody. You knew I was goddamn blessing before,” he speaks with a shine in his eyes, the familiar banter making some of the ice melt over his skin. “With a face like this, I never have to say much.” 

Jody snorts. “Didn’t have quite the same effect when you looked like a deer in headlights. Looked a whole lot like Adam over there does right now. Dean, let him know that I don’t bite unless you give me a damn good reason.” 

Dean drags his gaze to Adam again, unwillingly. “Jody’s a gem. But don’t let anybody else know it or we ain’t gonna be able to get so much of this after hours,” he raises up his plate. For emphasis, he throws in an exaggerated wink. 

Then, Adam does something that Dean doesn’t expect: he smiles. It’s a tiny thing, barely there -- but it’s there. And if he didn’t look like Sam before, he sure as hell does now. 

Something twangs in Dean’s chest and he swallows. He averts his eyes back to Jody and asks about the menu for tomorrow, anything to stop thinking about the broken kid in front of him. She says something about baked ziti, but Dean’s not listening; his mind is running a mile a minute, and every time he steals a glance at Adam it moves faster. 

_What if that was Sam? What if I fucked up Sam too? What’s he getting up to at school? I don’t know what he’s doing -- what if he’s acting like me? Or what if he’s doing shit that’s even worse than what I do? What if I fucked up?_

_What if I fucked up and I don’t even know it?_

After five minutes, Dean runs out of things to say. With Adam’s huge eyes trained on him, he can’t think about anything other than finding a way to sneak into the room next to Bobby’s office and call Sam _right fucking now._

“Hey, Dean, Adam was asking about where to find some stuff in the craft room. That’s not exactly my domain but I know you’re a bit of an expert at this point,” she looks over her shoulder at him, eyes narrowed. “I was promised a portrait about two weeks ago, when’s that getting finished?” 

Dean swallows. _Fuck. Double fuck._ “I’m working on it. Hard to capture the image of a goddess, y’know?” His voice is weak and he can hear it in his last words. “Let’s leave the queen to her kingdom, I’ll uh -- I’ll show you the crafting stuff. Or whatever.” 

_Shit._

Adam scrambles up to follow him, thanking Jody on his way out the door to the dining hall. He trails a few footsteps behind Dean, and thank _God_ he isn’t keeping step like Sam would. If Dean thinks for one more second about his little brother being someplace like this he’s pretty sure he’ll implode on the spot. 

“Here we go. What were you looking for?” Dean asks, still not looking at Adam. Over his shoulder, quiet in the dark hallway, Adam breathes out a little fast. 

“Just, y’know. Pencils and stuff. A sharpener, maybe. In case a pencil breaks or something.” 

Dean’s eyes snap up to the door. The blood drains out of his face, and he stands up a little straighter. “You a big art guy?” 

Silence for a beat. “Yeah, sure.” 

_Bad liar._ Dean turns around and looks at him straight on now. He sets his mouth into a firm line and examines the kid in front of him. Thin, pale, dark shadows under the eyes. 

“No sharpeners in there.” 

Adam looks up for a second, barely meeting Dean’s gaze before retreating to his shoes again. This is a far cry from the combative patient Dean saw in the circle before -- his breath catches in his throat as he watches Adam’s face crumple for a second before steeling again. This time, Dean doesn’t see Sam; instead, he witnesses a breathing mirror reflecting back his own eighteen-year-old self. He looks painfully young. 

_You used to be a kid like that._

“Hey,” he says. Adam doesn’t look up. “How old are you?” 

“Seventeen. They admitted me because I’ll turn eighteen while I’m here.” 

_Seventeen. Christ._ Dean clears his throat and slaps a hand on Adam’s shoulder, gripping hard. At the touch, Adam startles -- he leans back, but Dean holds him in place with a firm hand.

“Look. Seventeen is _nothing._ You’ve got a hell of lot to look forward to.” 

Adam shakes his head.

“No, listen to me. You do. I know it sounds fucking stupid but it’s true. And even if you don’t believe it, who the fuck wants to die in a place this lame?” 

Adam cracks a smile. 

“Seriously. Everything’s fucking beige. It’s ugly. You wanna go out staring at shit like this?” He turns and points at a framed picture of a very poorly drawn tree with a sun shining in the corner. There’s a scribbled _Life is BEAUTIFUL_ in the center of the image, letters rainbow colors. “C’mon, man. I know for a fact you’re smarter than me from how you talked in group and I’m not even dumb enough to wanna die staring at shit like this.” 

It’s a lie, but Adam doesn’t need to know. Dean briefly thinks that Cas is the only person who would know it’s a lie, but Cas isn’t here. Dean shoves the thought away as soon as it arrives and focuses on the now-laughing kid in front of him. Adam nods and looks up again. “How old are you?” 

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. “Not a kid anymore. All that matters.” 

Adam rolls his eyes because he's a teenager, then he waits a second before opening his mouth to speak again. “You seem familiar.” 

Dean stares at him blankly before responding. He grips the hem of his scrubs tight in his fist and tries to ignore the way his pulse is pounding. “Might be. Don’t have to talk about it, though.” 

Adam swallows and nods again. He shrugs one shoulder and cracks a weak smile. “Guess I’ll save all that stuff for therapy, right?” 

Dean crooks up one side of his mouth. “Guess so. The counselors kinda know more about how to help with all the self-hatred and daddy issues.” 

“God, I got enough of that to last another lifetime.” 

“Me too. They’ll teach you how to carry it, though. No matter how big of a fucking bastard your old man was -- and I know some pretty big sons of bitches.” 

Adam shuffles his feet again, unsure of what else to say. “Thanks. For the pep talk, or whatever that was.” 

Dean actually laughs this time. “Pep isn’t exactly my specialty, so glad it helped. You should go to bed. And here,” he says, extending one of the containers of pie. “For later.” 

Adam thanks him and heads back to his room, shutting the door silently. Dean stares after him and then down at the remaining slice of pie in his hands. It could easily feed two. 

He swallows and rotates the dish in his hands. 

_Not a kid anymore._

He sighs and lets his head fall back against the door to the craft room with a soft thud. It’s late, and he knows that even if he walks to the other side of the ward he won’t have a lot of time with Cas. Probably just twenty minutes, maybe less. And the whole time he’ll be thinking about the way Cas’s hands look when they’re drifting down someone’s back, the soft way he speaks to someone he cares about. 

_Not a fucking kid anymore. He’s your friend. Be a goddamn adult and buck up._

Dean heaves out a breath and pushes off the wall. He walks down the hallway to the narcotics ward and doesn’t allow himself to hesitate at Cas’s door. 

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


“So. You’re getting close to finishing up here.” 

Dean blinks at Ellen across the desk, tongue feeling too big for his mouth. Sunlight streams in through the window, and Dean can see autumn leaves drifting outside on gusts of wind. 

“Still got a month, kinda,” he says, gripping the sides of the chair tightly. 

“Kinda. But the first two fly by and the third is practically a blink. We like to get started early with our discharge planning so you feel comfortable with what’s gonna happen when you get out of this place.” 

Dean nods at her and tries to avoid the way sweat is collecting along his spine. “What does that mean?” 

“Figuring out where you’re gonna go, what you’re gonna do, who you’re gonna see. Everything. We plan it out nice and detailed so it’s harder to get off the rails once you’re on your own.” 

The panic starts to take over him, and Dean feels his throat closing up. He swallows, pushing back the feeling -- but it’s almost impossible. He can’t imagine returning to the life he lived before; scraping by for shitty food, a shitty apartment, a shitty car. Waking up cold and alone in his apartment, wondering how long it would take him to die. 

The thought sends a chill down his spine. 

_Since when did dying after getting out of here stop being part of the plan?_

He swallows, the realization thick in his mouth. Dean doesn’t even know where to begin to plan a life after this. He just assumed there was never going to _be_ a life after this -- get Sam to school, let it end. Easy. Sam was taken care of with a full ride and friends at school -- and Dean knew that he’d get a girl, get her whole family to fall in love with him. Sam wouldn’t even have to remember the shitty family he got stuck with since they’d all be gone. Ghosts were always easier to deal with. 

“Dean?” 

His eyes snap up, and he realizes that there are heavy tears collecting in his eyes. Ellen’s eyebrows are drawn together, her mouth turned down in a soft shape that makes Dean sad. He wipes the tears away. “Yeah,” he chokes out. 

“I know it’s a little scary. But that’s why we start early, so we can get everything sorted out in advance. We’re gonna help you through it so you don’t feel alone.” 

The tears reappear, and Dean curses himself for it. Because it truly doesn’t matter if he’s not alone right now -- he _will_ be. He’s always going to be, and everyone in his life is going to get ripped away just like everyone at Hope Valley will be ripped away. Charlie, Ellen, Benny, Kevin, Bobby, Cas. Caught up in the routine and the friendships, it felt like a utopia for a little bit; full of other people fucked up in the same way. People who tried to understand, people who listened. For the first time in his life, Dean hadn’t felt alone. 

_You don’t deserve to have something good. You’re always gonna be alone._

His cheeks feel wet, but he doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, Dean shifts his gaze up from his hands gripped around each other, fingernails digging in, and looks at Ellen instead. Ellen, gaze open and unworried. Her shoulders are drawn back with a chin held high. Dean thinks about Ellen -- who she is now. Then he thinks about the woman she used to be. 

_Maybe you don’t deserve to be dead, though._

He swallows hard and nods. “Okay.” 

She smiles at him. “Okay. Let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: mention of child abuse, discussion of alcoholism, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mention of prostitution, discussions of suicide, discussion of disordered eating/food restriction


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am drowning  
> There is no sign of land  
> You are coming down with me  
> Hand in unlovable hand"
> 
> \--no children, the mountain goats

“See you on the other side, brother,” Benny says, and he claps Dean on the shoulder. 

He’s got a small black backpack slung over his shoulder, full of the few belongings he brought with him when he came to Hope Valley. The only thing missing is a half-full bottle of vodka, discarded by Charlie ninety days ago. Early morning sunshine streams through the windows high up on the walls, illuminating Benny and turning his eyes a little golden. Over the last five days, Dean has watched Kevin, Ash, and Rufus all be discharged -- and now, Benny goes. 

Kevin left Dean a note telling him that parents don’t control your life, and Ash gave him a physics textbook that he didn’t want anymore. Dean hasn’t found it yet, but there’s a note hidden inside the seventh chapter that tells him he’s smart enough to get it -- he just has to try. Rufus gave him a rough pat on the shoulder and told him that he could be better than his father. Benny gives him time. 

“See you, bud,” Dean says, and he tries to put on a smile. The reality is that losing Benny is the most painful person to go so far -- it hurts the same way that sending Sam to college hurt, and Dean doesn’t know where to put his hands. They hang awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching and throat tight; like his first month in rehab, Benny speaks for him. 

“You’re almost done. Come see me when you get out, it’s just a couple of weeks,” he smiles warmly, tucks a piece of paper with a phone number into Dean’s shaky palm. His eyes are bright and soft, and Dean wonders what his life would have been like if he’d had someone like Benny to lean on instead of collapsing in on himself for so long.

Dean swallows. “Just a couple weeks.” 

For the first time, Dean has friends. Sure, all but one are gone now -- but for the first time in his life, he has friends. Friends that Sam asks about each week, friends that gave him gifts when they walked back out the huge front doors to the real world, friends that listened to him. Not only listened, but waited to listen. Dean swallows again as Benny tosses the other strap of the backpack over his shoulder and zips up his jacket. 

Benny grins at him one last time. “You’ll do fine, brother. You’ve got light in you. Whole world’s gonna see it soon.” 

He goes, and Dean manages to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. Benny strolls through the front doors with purpose, shoulders pulled back and head held high. Last night at group he told everyone that he was moving back in with his cousin for a while, gonna try to land a new job in the next few weeks. He was happy, and he was excited. Everything that Dean isn’t. 

Every therapy session with Ellen is like pulling teeth now. Any mention of future planning makes Dean freeze up completely, so badly that he stops talking sometimes. So far, they’ve gotten through the process of how to get back to his apartment and different places to look for jobs. But as soon as Ellen mentions what to do further down the line, like building support systems or finding people to check in with, he shuts down. He can’t help it. 

Dean never thought he’d make it this far. 

But Ellen is patient, and she waits for him just like everyone else. Even now, two hours after Benny’s gone, and Dean is finally letting the tears drip down his face. He can’t speak, and he told Ellen that he wouldn’t be able to; she’s started bringing a backup notepad and pen just in case. It feels like a step backwards to Dean, and he’s ashamed. 

On the notepad, he scribbles out a barely-legible apology. 

_I’m sorry for being so fucking lame._

Ellen’s eyes narrow as soon as she reads the message. “Don’t apologize. And you're not lame, whatever the hell you mean by that.” 

Dean shrugs miserably and clicks the pen a few times, unsure of what to say in response. 

“This isn’t a weakness, Dean. You get nervous, you clam up. It happens to everybody, but it’s harder for some people. You’re on high alert all the damn time. Hard to talk with alarm bells going off in your head constantly.” 

Dean glances up. It’s the first time anyone has ever been able to articulate how he feels that closely, and he stares at Ellen for a second. 

She quirks up an eyebrow. “That wrong?”

  
His hand flies across the page. _Opposite._

Ellen nods slowly. “You know, a lot of people who have trouble talking like this have something called anxiety. Anybody ever diagnose you with that before?” 

He shakes his head and furrows his brows. _Everybody feels like this._

At that, Ellen laughs. “Not like this. I’m just a counselor, so I can’t say anything for sure. But you’ve been through a hell of a lot Dean, and it makes sense to me that you’d feel like this. There are ways that we can make it easier, especially once you get back into the outside world.” 

He shrinks away again, tucking his gaze somewhere safe along the back of the room. Ellen sighs and lets her head fall forward a little. “Dean. You have to trust me. It’s just gonna be a short conversation with a doctor. Charlie can be with you, or me. I think we have to tackle this if we’re gonna keep going with planning out your discharge.” 

Dean feels his shoulders shake, and he shrugs again so that he has something to do with them other than trembling in place. It only works for a second though, and then he realizes that he’s back to shaking again -- not only is he back to shaking, but the tremors have traveled down his arms and into his ribs. He tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs feel tight. 

“Dean, stay with me. It’s okay. Can you tell me what it is about getting out of here that scares you?” 

The shaking gets worse. He shrugs again, then forces his eyes shut. The pen almost slips out of his fingers when he starts to write again, but he manages to scrawl out one word: _alone._

Ellen immediately shakes her head. “You’re not going to be alone, Dean. You’ve got plenty of friends from here that you can contact, and you’ve got that genius little brother too. There are support groups you can keep going to, and you’ll meet plenty of people when you get a job.” 

He squints his eyes shut again and tucks his chin into his chest, desperately trying to make himself small. Dean cracks open his eyes for just a second to write again -- as he does, a tear drips down the sharp line of his nose and onto the paper, blurring the ink. 

_Everyone leaves._

“That’s not true, Dean. Your brother isn’t going to leave you.” 

_He already did._

A sad look crosses Ellen’s face. “Dean, he wanted to get out of your father’s apartment. Can you blame him for that?” 

Dean barks out an ugly laugh, the first noise he’s made all session. _He never got his ass beat. He’s just running from me._

Ellen steels her expression into something neutral, sitting up straighter in the chair. “There are a lot of different ways to go through hell. Both of you tried to escape, just in different ways. What we’re trying to do now is figure out a way to make that place not feel like hell anymore.” 

Dean lifts his gaze and looks at her. Angry, sad, and quivering, he finally speaks. 

“Hell is a lot bigger than my old man’s shitty apartment.” 

His eyes flick up to the clock on the wall, sees that their hour is up. Without another word, Dean rises from his chair and walks out the door -- he slams it on the way out, relishing in the noise as it crashes into the frame. The tears have long since dried on his cheeks, but he wipes his eyes anyway and walks back to his room. 

The bed creaks as he sits down, and Dean curls his shoulders as he lets out a deep breath. 

_You’re alone._

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
  


As 10PM rolls around, Dean still feels wired from his conversation with Ellen. Cas wasn’t in the craft room earlier, and it’s been a few days since Dean has seen him. One time they were even scheduled to hike at the same time, but Cas didn’t keep step with him -- instead he trailed behind, pausing to pocket rocks and stare at the clouds. Dean hadn’t commented on the bandages on his wrists, and Cas hadn’t offered anything.

In Cas’s absence, Charlie had drawn a few dogs with him, but even her Picasso pooches weren’t enough to change Dean’s sour mood. 

He feels spikes of anger trailing up and down his skin, antsy from the increasingly smaller group and not wanting to familiarize himself with any of the new admits. Dean wants a fight. 

As he walks down the hallway, he thinks about the friendship bracelet tucked away in the back of the top drawer of his dresser. The intermingling shades of blue and white and black. Arriving at Castiel’s door, hand poised to knock, he falters. 

_Fuck it._ He knocks and shoves the memory of the bracelet back in his head. After eight long seconds, the door opens to reveal a disheveled-looking Castiel. 

The first thing that Dean notices is that he’s shirtless. The second thing Dean notices is that he looks furious. 

“What could you possibly want?” 

Dean wants a fight, but the words sting. He assumed that he was going to have to be the person to start it, and Castiel’s antagonism catches him off guard. He blinks for a second before replying. 

“Just wanted to say hi,” he says, words neutral and limp coming out of his mouth. _Fuck. Idiot!_

Dean briefly allows himself to be distracted by his friend’s torso -- but upon further inspection, he realizes that Castiel has clearly lost some weight. His broad shoulders seem a little narrower, his ribs almost visible under two tattoos in a language that Dean doesn’t recognize. 

Cas lifts an eyebrow. “After a week of barely speaking with me at all? Did your last drunkard friend check out today?” 

He flinches. Cas nods. “That’s what I assumed.” 

Dean doesn’t know what to say. The shadows under Cas’s eyes are darker than they’ve ever been, and his hair seems unwashed. There are at least three more bracelets on each of his arms, but they do little to hide the white bandages underneath. 

“What do you want, Dean? Now that you’ve said hi, of course,” Cas says, voice coming out tired. He looks wiped, and angry, and older than he should. 

Ever a master of smoothly changing topics, Dean speaks. “What’s with the bandages?” 

Cas stares at him for a second before tucking his arms behind his back. 

Dean gulps and takes a step forward, putting Castiel barely four inches of space away. Immediately, Cas lunges back into the room, trying desperately to keep a decent area between them -- Dean follows, pushing back the electric spark in his hands as his fingers wrap around his friend’s elbow. 

“You think I can’t fucking see these? I’m dense but I have _eyes,_ Cas,” Dean spits out, yanking Castiel’s arm forward. He pushes some of the bracelets up, closer to his elbow, and Dean’s words freeze in his mouth. 

There’s fresh gauze close to the crook of his arm, right below Dean’s right hand. His left hand cradles Castiel’s wrist in his palm, stretching the length of his forearm. Even in the dim lighting of the room, the marks are impossible to miss. Mottled red scar tissue tracks along his arm, a physical map of the veins beneath. Those aren’t the marks that catch Dean’s eye, however; cross-hatched over the scar tissue are freshly healed cuts, straight lines that appear deliberate, shallow. Near Castiel’s wrist, there are so many straight lines that the scar tissue is no longer visible -- just criss-crossing lines, pale scars hidden under the bracelets. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes out the name, voice soft. He moves his left hand, curling his fingers into Castiel’s palm, before the arm is suddenly yanked away. 

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Cas says, voice wavering.

Dean looks up at him with narrowed eyes. “How the hell does someone not notice that?”

Cas clenches his jaw while he adjusts the bracelets, arms concealed again. “My parents certainly never did.” 

Dean feels something in his chest break, but he holds it together and stretches out a hand to Castiel again. “Cas, look, I’m not like them. I’m not -- why? Why are you doing this?” 

He backs away again, knees knocking into the edge of his small bed. “I can’t use, so I do this instead. Hate to break it to you, Dean, but I’ve got a few more problems than just liking heroin a little too much. All of the other problems are just as ugly. You weren’t supposed to know.” 

Dean shakes his head. “Cas, I don’t -- what are you talking about? You’re here to get better, we can figure this out just like the other stuff --” 

Cas shoots him a look that silences Dean instantly. He takes a deep breath in, and then he rolls his shoulders back and holds up his head. 

“This is my fifth time, Dean. Do you really think I want to get better?” 

“Why -- why don’t you? Cas, I don’t --” 

“I’m not _good_ at living a normal life. You already know that. I’m not good at anything else other than being here and being doped up or being out there and being doped up. I don’t have anywhere to go, or anything to do, or anyone to see. There's _nothing_ for me.” 

Dean pushes back the stinging in his throat and waits a beat before speaking. 

“What about Anna? Why not stay with her?” 

Cas stares at him. “I can’t.” 

“Why?”

“I just _can’t,_ Dean,” Cas says, the words louder. 

Dean sets his jaw. “That’s not an answer.” 

Cas’s gaze shifts into something icy, and Dean feels a curtain drop between them. “Don’t ask questions with gruesome answers, Dean.” 

“Y’know, I’m pretty fucking used to _gruesome._ You’re not the only motherfucker who’s been through something, Cas,” Dean snaps. 

“You do love to put words in my mouth, don’t you?” Cas says, putting his hands on his hips as he lifts his chin. 

“Shut the fuck up. I’m trying to be here for you, asshole!” 

“You’ve done a swell job of being here over the past few weeks, Dean,” Cas’s words are cool, measured. “Perhaps you should get back to the other ward. It’s a little crowded on this side at the moment.” 

Dean’s shoulders drop and he lets his head hang forward for a second. 

_Fucking idiot. You ruined this. Ruined with a little fucking crush._

Dean looks up at his friend again, sees the heavy lines under his eyes. 

_You hurt him._

He takes the pain between his ribs and holds it close, feeds on it. Soaks in the familiarity of the stinging from Cas’s words. He’s broken it, this thing between them, and he wants to smash it to pieces -- Dean knows he’s acting like he’s seventeen, but he does it anyway. Because it’s all he knows how to do. 

“Why are you seeing Meg all the time?” 

The click of Cas’s teeth as he grinds his jaw is audible in the silence of his room. 

“What does it matter to you, Dean?” 

“Because she’s just some nurse who works here. You asked why I wasn’t here, it's because she was always fucking in your room when I came over.” 

“Meg is an old friend of mine, and I have _very_ few,” Castiel says, voice venomous. “She was the only person checking on me. And what does it matter to you, _Dean,_ if other people are with me? I’m not at your beck and call.” 

Dean swallows. Cas is pushing him, so he pushes back. 

“Why’s she coming and seeing you when she said it was… _dangerous?_ Dangerous to see you? What else won’t you tell me, Cas?” 

Cas rushes forward and pushes Dean’s shoulders, sends him careening back into the door. Alarm bells start going off in Dean’s head, the sensation of being pushed against the door immediately flinging him back to a freezing memory in a house in the middle of nowhere. He knows, logically, that Cas won’t hurt him -- but it doesn’t matter. Panic grips his entire body like a vise, and his throat closes.

Cas doesn’t even hold him there; he just pushes Dean away before stepping back, leaving a solid six feet between them. His shoulders are shaking, and Dean can see the tense outline of the muscles in his torso. 

When he speaks, his voice is soft, trembling. “It’s a danger because she tends to the cuts, because she’s a friend and it’s her job here. And it’s a danger because I’ve injected with dirty needles, and now I’m sick. I’ve got hepatitis, Dean, since you want to know everything about me so badly.” 

Dean stares at his friend, eyes wide. Despite everything that Cas has just told him, he still can’t loosen the rope around his neck -- his body is still pumping with adrenaline, frozen in place and unable to make a sound. 

_Snap out of it! Fucking snap out of it!_

Cas stares at him, waiting, and Dean can’t speak. After a moment, he closes his eyes.

“I know that you probably find me disgusting, because most do. This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Cas says, swallowing heavily as he keeps his eyes closed. Dean shouts at himself, willing any muscle in his body to shift out of panic mode and to do _something, anything, anything!_ But he’s locked in place, fearful, confused, and reeling. 

Cas turns away, but Dean tracks a tear starting to drip down the side of his face. “Leave. Please.” 

_Leave._

_Leave._

_Everybody leaves._

_He wants you to leave._

With shaking fingers, Dean turns the handle on the door and falls into the hallway. He shuts the door too loudly, barely able to control his arms. He stumbles back to the other ward, feeling tears escaping as he goes.

Twenty different thoughts whirl in his mind at once, and Dean feels helpless to stop the onslaught. 

_Cas is sick. Cas is sick, just like you’re sick. He’s not with Meg. He hurts himself. Why the fuck is he hurting himself? Why didn’t he tell you? Why did he push you away? Was he gonna hurt me? That guy hurt you. No, he can’t fucking do that, he’d never do that -- why did you push him away first? Fuck, already know the answer -- fuck, he’s gone. He’s your last friend, he’s your best friend, and he’s gone, and you hurt him, and he thinks you think he’s disgusting._

Dean cradles his head in his hands. He tightens his fingers in his hair until it stings, forcing himself to focus on the pain. It clears the way for a single thought, ringing loud and clear in his father’s voice: _this is what happens when you open your fucking mouth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: self harm, discussion of drug abuse, discussion of alcoholism, very bad coping mechanisms, very bad communication skills, very brief mention of past assault, brief mention of child abuse


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'd like to run and jump on your solitude  
> I'd like to rearrange your attitude to me"
> 
> \--i'd like to walk around in your mind, vashti bunyan

  
  
  


The phone rings twice before Sam picks up. The sound is shrill and hollow, echoing around in Dean’s head before the familiar sound of his little brother’s voice fills the void. 

“Hey, Dean! How’s it going?” 

Dean swallows. “Just fine. How’s school? And the girl?” 

“God, that place is really making you a horrible liar,” Sam sighs. Dean rolls his eyes at the sound, thinks about saying _pot, kettle, black,_ before Sam starts speaking again. “We can avoid it for now since I know that’s what you’re gonna do, but we’re gonna talk about it. Don’t fight me on this, I won a debate tournament last week.” 

“You won a debate tournament? Holy shit, that’s great Sam!” Dean exclaims, his smile audible over the phone. “You’re gonna be such an awesome lawyer.” 

“It’s nothing, really,” Sam says, and Dean pictures the way his brother is smiling down at his shoes. He started doing it when he was about seven, never dropped the habit. “School’s good too. And Jess is great. She, uh. She wanted me to come to Thanksgiving with her family.” 

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest. Thanksgiving is just a few days after he gets out of rehab -- his first time seeing Sam in three months. Well, supposed to be.

“Oh.” 

“No, Dean, I already--” 

“That’s fine, that’s totally cool,” he says, the words pouring out. “I get it.” 

“No, Dean, listen to me. I already told her no.” 

“C’mon, Sam, you don’t wanna miss out on a real turkey. God knows I tried over the years but there’s only so much you can do with a Walmart rotisserie chicken,” Dean huffs out a laugh, trying to disguise the hurt in his voice. “You gotta go. She must like you a hell of a lot.” 

“Dean, I’m not gonna leave you alone on Thanksgiving. This is the longest we’ve been apart since before I was born, I’m pretty sure. Hate to say it, but I miss you,” Sam’s voice is soft through the receiver. The words register in his brain slowly, and he starts to feel his throat close up for a different reason -- he feels like he’s about to cry, but it’s not bad. It doesn’t hurt. 

He feels something, but he doesn’t know what to call it. The permanent knot in his chest loosens, and he takes a deep breath. “I miss you too, Sammy.” 

“Are things okay? What’s going on with you?” 

Dean shakes his head and closes his eyes before leaning his forehead against the wall. The tiny room feels even more like a box than usual, and he thinks back to squeezing into this space with Cas at his side -- just inches apart, laughing along with Sam. Stealing glances at the curve of Castiel’s cheek or the way his eyes crinkled up when Sam told his college stories. How warm he felt, even in the cavernous distance between their bodies. 

“Just, y’know. People checking out, back to the real world. And I, uh. I don’t think Cas is gonna talk to me again, so there’s. That’s not great.” 

“ _What_? You and Cas are so close,” Sam exclaims, so loud that Dean holds the receiver back from his ear. “What the hell happened?” 

Dean sighs. “I don’t know,” he says, truthfully. 

“Dean. You’re not the best communicator in the world. This is probably something we can fix, just tell me what happened.” 

“I don’t think I can fix it, Sam.” 

“I never said _you,_ I said _we._ Besides, Cas clearly likes you a lot. I doubt you fucked it up that bad.” 

Gulping, Dean takes a moment to think. “I. I don’t know. I was...concerned, about him. So I asked him some questions, and I think I pushed too hard. Pissed him off.” 

“What were you asking him about?” 

“I can’t… look, Sam, I already made him say stuff that he didn’t wanna say to me, I don’t--”

“Okay, fine, you don’t have to tell me. Keep his secret. Why do you think it’s unfixable?”

“He just -- I don’t know. He looked like he wanted to murder me, and then he pushed me. And that freaked me out, so I stopped talking, then he told me something important but I couldn’t fucking _speak._ Then he told me to get the hell out. I hurt him, Sam.” 

“Dean, this doesn’t make _any_ sense,” Sam says.

(And yes, it doesn’t.) 

“There has to be more going on.” 

“Well, I don’t fucking know!” 

“Dean, chill out. Tell me slower. What happened before, and what happened after.” 

Dean sighs. “Well, I didn’t talk to him a whole lot last week, and then I barged in last night and asked him what the fuck was going on.” 

Sam is silent. “You ignored him for a week, confronted _him_ about not talking, and then got surprised that he was mad?” 

_Hm. This doesn’t make me look very good._ “Well.” 

“Dean.” 

“Communication is a two-way street, Sammy--” 

“Dean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re kind of _on edge_ a lot. Cas was giving you space to come see him when you wanted to. He’s told me so, on the phone. _You_ have heard him say that! If you drop off the face of the earth without telling anyone _why_ it’s usually a shitty thing to do.” 

He swallows, tears thick in the back of his throat. “I just, couldn’t see him. Going through some stuff.” 

Sam sighs on the other end of the line. “He’s going through stuff too, Dean. Having one of your only friends ghost you in the middle of something like this has to suck. He probably felt lonely.” 

The tears start to drip, and Dean wills his body to fall back under his control. _Fuck. He’s just as alone as me._

“This secret he told you. Was it bad?” 

“Sort of. I don’t, uh. Know a whole lot about it. Said he doesn’t have anywhere to go after rehab is all done.”

“He told you something important _and_ that he has nowhere to go and then you were silent?” 

“I couldn’t help it!”

Sam sighs loudly, and Dean can barely hear him mutter something about _getting you some fucking Xanax_ before his brother speaks up clearly again. 

“Whatever it was, it’s probably really hard to deal with. Cas sounds like he’s been through a lot, even if he doesn’t tell people about it. Dean, this was stupid, but it sounds like you just need to talk to him.” 

“I’m bad at that.” 

“God, I know,” Sam says, and Dean fights back the urge to spit out _bitch_ into the line. He checks the clock on the wall, sees that he only has two minutes left. 

“Sam, I don’t know what to say to him.” 

“Just be honest. He cares about you, you care about him. Plus, he’s my friend too. I wanted to meet him, so kiss and make up.”

The phrase sends a rush of heat flooding through Dean’s body, but he pushes it down as far as he can. Hot tears start to well up in his eyes again, and he misses his brother. “What if I can’t talk again?”

“You don’t have to say it. Write it.” 

“What, like some sappy letter?” 

Sam’s voice is firm, matter-of-fact. “Dean, you don’t have a lot of friends. Writing a sappy apology letter is the least you could do for someone who actively spoke for you for weeks.” 

The clock gives him thirty more seconds, and Dean would give anything to turn back time twenty minutes. Or twenty months, or twenty years. But right now, he would settle for twenty more minutes talking to his kind, smartass little brother.

“Thanks, Sam.” 

“Anytime. Let me know how it goes.” 

“Keep up the debating, kid. And stay on the books!” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you next week. You’ll figure out the stuff with Cas.” 

The receiver clicks off, and Dean is alone in the room again. The knot in his chest returns, but it doesn’t feel quite as tight as it usually does. He allows himself ten seconds to breathe in the silence, tracking the beating of his heart in his chest, and then exits the room. 

As Dean opens the door, he’s confronted with a thin blonde boy with his fist raised, about to knock. Adam blinks in surprise as the door opens, and Dean can’t help but notice the way the bags under his eyes are softer and his face looks a little less gaunt. 

“Oh, hi Dean,” he says, flashing a brief weak smile. “You all finished?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding as he exits the shoebox of a room. “All yours, kid.” 

“Thanks.” 

He turns to walk back to his room, already trying to figure out what to write in his sappy letter to Cas, when Adam calls back out to him. 

“Dean?” 

“Yeah?” Dean stops, turning on his heel. Adam is wringing his hands together in front of the door, hovering at the threshold. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

Dean tries to stay patient, tries to think about how it would be if this was Sam in front of him instead of some random kid that looks a little like Sam. “Shoot.” 

“I’m about to talk to my mom for the first time in two years. What am I supposed to say?” 

Dean stares at him with his face twisted into the closest thing he can get to neutral. “What do you wanna say?” 

Adam shrugs. “Too much. I don’t know.” 

“What was the last thing you said to her?” 

The younger man turns his eyes to his shoes, scuffs one foot against the beige tiles. “Fuck you. I don’t get you. Something like that, I guess.” 

Dean nods once and raises his eyebrows, then sighs. “Maybe just the opposite of that?” 

After a long pause, Adam looks up at him again. “'I’m sorry, I understand?' What about that?” 

Dean shrugs. “Sounds pretty damn good to me,” he says, working the phrase over in his mind. “Actually, I might steal that from you.” 

At his response, Adam grins and shrugs again. “Thanks, Dean.” 

“You’ll do great.” 

Dean watches the door shut, barely picking up the soft click of the buttons on the phone as Adam dials the number. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before he starts walking to his room again, mulling over the phrase. _I’m sorry. I understand._

He is, and he does. When he gets back to his room, he rips out three sheets of paper from an old notepad and starts writing. 

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


Dean waits until he hears the last door on the ward click shut before he heads out, notes in hand. He thought three little notebook pages would be enough, but he was wrong -- as soon as he started, he found it hard to stop. Words started pouring out, littering the pages with _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I understand, you have no idea how much I understand._ When he finally finished writing, the note felt incomplete -- so he dug Cas’s old letter out of his nightstand and traced the little black bird in the corner, then tried to draw a bee just in case the bird didn’t look very good. 

(It did not look very good.) 

Clutching the pages tightly in his fingers, he feels a drop of sweat drip down the length of his spine. As he silently passes through the glass doors into the narcotics ward, he feels his pulse bounding in his chest, in his wrists, behind his knees. Anxiety grips him tight, but he fights it every step of the way -- he has something to say. And he needs Cas to know, _immediately._

After arriving at Castiel’s door, Dean pauses. _Do I knock? What if he punches me? No, he wouldn’t -- or would he? I deserve it. I could slip it under? But what if he doesn’t see it until the morning? He needs to see it now -- fuck it, just do something!_ He looks down at the notes, papers creased into thirds and tucked together. Within the stack, the friendship bracelet is hidden inside the last two pages. Dean rebraided it two more times after he finished writing the note, intent on perfecting it. Just in case it was the last thing he ever gave Cas. 

Dean gulps down his worry and decides to combine his ideas. He slips the note under the door and knocks, then freezes in place. 

_Fuck._

He hears movement on the other side of the door, the gentle creak of the bed as Castiel rises. Shadows move in the space under the frame and Dean holds his breath for a few seconds. He feels glued to the floor, trapped in this moment -- he doesn’t know if waiting outside or leaving is worse, but it seems like his body has independently decided that staying is the best option. 

A small eternity passes, and it’s long enough that Dean finally feels his heart slow down enough to start moving again. He takes in a silent, shaking breath, then turns on his heel to walk back to his room. It’s been forever -- Cas isn’t going to come out. Cas still might not ever talk to him again, which will piss Sam off and make Dean monumentally sad, but at least he’ll know. He’ll know that Dean’s sorry, and he’ll know that Dean didn’t mean to push him away. And he’ll have Dean’s shitty bracelet. 

_This has to be enough._

Dean's made peace with that fact when he’s five feet from the glass doors to his own ward, but the squealing hinges of an old door stop him in his tracks. From down the hall, he hears a soft pattering of socked feet walking quickly down the hall in his direction -- hope surges forward in his chest, but he pushes it back and closes his eyes. 

_It’s probably someone else. It’s gotta be someone else. Just weird timing._

“Dean?” 

_Damn._

“Dean,” Cas repeats, closer than Dean realized. He opens his eyes and turns around, finds Cas standing a mere five feet away. He’s clutching the notes in one hand, the friendship bracelet in the other. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, the words coming out not nearly as casually as he wants them to. His voice is soft, and careful, and decidedly sappy. _Sam would be proud,_ he thinks. 

Cas stares at him for a long few moments, and Dean soaks up the light from his gaze. He’s missed this -- just getting to _look_ at Cas, staring shamelessly at the way the dim light from the hallway reflects in his eyes and over the strong line of his jaw. Cas is just wearing a white undershirt, scrub top still nowhere to be found, and Dean lets his eyes wander over the hollow of his throat. Thinks about what it would be like to kiss the shadow there. 

When Cas speaks again, Dean meets his eyes. “Did you mean this? Everything in this?” He holds up the papers, gently waving them in the air. The final page has been placed at the front, the bird and bee waving at Dean from the bottom right corner of the paper. Dean swallows and nods, finding himself incapable of speaking. It doesn’t hurt, though -- there’s no rope around his throat. He just has nothing to say that isn’t already in the palm of Castiel’s hand. 

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, and he closes the distance between them. For the first time since he met Cas, Dean falls into him -- Castiel tugs him into a bruising hug, and Dean can’t help himself. He melts into the firm line of his friend’s body, allows his arms to curl around Cas’s waist and hold him steady. Cas still smells faintly of lavender, and Dean closes his eyes. Tries to stop thinking and just feel. 

As soon as he manages to stop focusing on the harsh beat of his own heart, he realizes that Castiel’s is beating just as fast. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel mumbles into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean hugs him tighter. “I’m sorry for not telling you. And I didn’t realize that pushing you would do that. I thought -- I don’t know. I’m sorry. I thought you would never want to be near me again.” 

Dean pulls away from him, grips his shoulders and stares into his eyes. “Cas. I forgive you. Of _course_ I forgive you. And don’t fucking apologize for not telling me. People don’t have to, y’know. Talk about that stuff, if they don’t wanna,” he says, and he feels heat flare in his cheeks. The proximity, the conversation, the truth hovering under his tongue -- _you could say it. You can tell him. Fix it. Fix everything._

Castiel offers him a soft, beautiful smile, and he nods. “I agree. Health, and these matters can be… difficult.” 

_Or you could pretend._

“Yeah, it’s… it’s tough.” 

Cas lingers in his grip, not moving away from under Dean’s hands. Dimly, in the back of his mind, Dean realizes that Cas has probably been touched by no one other than Meg and doctors since he got his diagnosis. The realization of his isolation, the pain mirrored within his own solitude, drives Dean forward. He leans in close, stops himself just a few inches shy. Lets his eyes linger, and pretends, for a second, that he could do something. 

Dean closes his eyes. 

Infinity passes between them, and when Dean opens his eyes again, Cas is just watching him. Calm, unreadable -- something in his face that Dean can’t name. He doesn’t shy away from Cas’s gaze, and Dean knows that friends don’t act like this. He knows that this also isn’t how you act around someone that you just have a crush on, but that’s too terrifying; as soon as that thought passes behind his eyes, he tucks it in a faraway corner of his brain to deal with later. For now, he focuses on the way Cas is close, and warm, and smiling at him. 

“Dean?” 

“Yeah?” He responds, beautifully trapped in Castiel’s orbit. 

“Would you like to come learn a new pattern with me? After you tie this one on, of course,” Castiel says, moving one of Dean’s hands from his shoulders. He tucks Dean’s hand gently within his own palm, places the blue friendship bracelet there. Dean swallows, hard. 

“You need, uh. Help? Tying it?” Dean has watched Castiel tie plenty of bracelets unassisted over the past two-and-a-half months. 

“This is the friendship part of friendship bracelets, Dean,” Cas says, letting one corner of his mouth quirk up. 

“Oh.” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, hyperaware of the way Castiel is still cupping the back of his hand. He swallows and reluctantly pulls away, stretching out the thread between his hands. Castiel places his right wrist out, and Dean gently ties the braided ends together until it’s tight enough to stay in place. Dean knows that he was just wrapped in Castiel’s arms, but the intimacy of brushing his fingertips over the inside of Castiel’s wrist makes something warm bloom behind his ribs. 

“Thank you, Dean.” 

Dean looks at his friend again, eyes sparking electric blue. 

“Of course, Cas.” 

  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


“So.” 

“So,” Ellen replies, one eyebrow raised. 

Two minutes pass. Dean swallows. 

Ellen sighs. “Y’know, most people finish up a sentence after they start it.” 

Dean huffs. “I have anxiety!” 

“That’s certainly true. So you can take your time, but I would like to remind you that we don’t have all day and I do still have a backup notepad.” 

He curls in over his knees and lets out a heavy breath. As Dean sits back up, he rubs his neck with his hand. 

“You were talking about planning for the future, and everything. Leaving here. Support systems and shit.” 

Ellen brightens instantly, leaning forward. “Yes, exactly. What about it?” 

Dean pauses, closes his eyes for a second to block out the beige of the room surrounding them. Instead, he thinks of blue. 

“So, uh. How do I ask someone to… come with me?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter tw: discussion of health issues


End file.
